Gerald’s head jerked as the guard swung the injection table upright. Leather wrist and arm straps dug into his flesh. Chest restraints tightened around his bare chest keeping him from sliding to the floor in a heap. He had no strength to fight it.
The white floor and walls magnified the bright fluorescent lights till everything in the tiny room glowed. The air was cold and sterile. A rubber tube hung from a needle in the vein inside his left elbow, another from his right foot. In the corner, next to the EKG machine, Reverend Rob recited Psalm 23.
“Won’t be long now Rev.”
Reverned Rob stopped praying just long enough to answer. “There’s still time to reconcile yourself with God, Gerry.”
Warden Johnson leaned over to whisper in Gerald’s ear. “I’m going to open that curtain. You’ll be able to see the witnesses on the other side. This is your chance to get right.”
Warden Johnson drew back the curtain. Gerald searched the small room beyond the glass for familiar faces. The district attorney sat on the front row. Gerald recognized two attractive, blonde television reporters and the frumpy newspaper man who covered his trial and appeals. He squinted to see into the last row. She was still hot after all these years.
A black fishnet veil hid Jennifer’s big blue eyes. Gerald smiled at the cleavage she flashed from her low-cut black dress. Daddy's little whore.
Warden Johnson moved a microphone in front of Gerald’s face. Gerald cleared his throat. “I guess,” the words hung hollow in the small room. “I guess I should say how sorry I am for what I done to Chastity. She was a special little girl. I loved that girl like she was my own. I ain’t never meant to hurt her.” Gerald stopped to glance at the back row.
“The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want…” He heard Reverend Rob begin Psalm 23 again.
“I ain’t never meant to hurt her.” Gerald’s voice was almost a whisper. He breathed deep, so deep it tugged at his chest straps. All those years of torture and pain ripped at his heart. “But it wasn’t my fault! She wanted it! She begged for it!”
Father Rob clenched his fists. His face flushed bright red. He prayed louder. “Yeah, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.” His voice quivered, but he continued. “For Thou are with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.”
“That little whore. Best I ever had!” Gerald felt ice in his veins. He checked the clock above the window, twelve seconds past midnight. His thoughts sloshed in a flood of anesthetic. It had begun. His eyes were already feeling heavy.
“Rev!”
“Yes, Gerry.” Reverend Rob rushed to his side.
“Is it too late?”
“It’s never too late, Gerry.”
“I shouldn’t have done that to you and Jennifer.” His speech was slurred. “I hope ya’ll can fin’ peace in my death. After what I done to your daughter.”
“Are you asking for forgiveness? There is no peace without forgiveness. Please Gerry, ask the Lord for forgiveness.”
“Rev,” his voice was barely a whisper. “She liked it.”
****
More than a trench, there’s a chasm between blame and forgiveness. Gerald Blount skirted the rim of that pit for 25 years. He could never forgive himself for the way he tricked Jennifer into marrying him just to get close to Chastity. Or for convincing himself that Chastity wanted and deserved what he had done to her. He could only blame the person who took his son Gerry Junior’s future and caused his wife Lisa to commit suicide, the same person who forced Gerald to rape and kill a 13-year-old girl.
Gerald leapt into that chasm with a smile on his face, his unrepentant soul left to weigh heavy on the heart of the priest who molested 11-year-old Gerry Junior, Reverend James Robichaux of The Resurrection Episcopal Church.
Showing posts with label forgiveness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label forgiveness. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
BLAME AND FOGIVENESS 3
Gerald bolted upright in his bed.
Reverend Rob was reading again. "When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!”
“What time is it?”
“You’re awake. Just in time for the best part.” Reverend Rob had not moved from his spot outside the cell door.
“It’s dark. What time is it?” Beads of sweat ran from Gerald’s forehead into his eyes making it look like he’d been crying.
“Quarter after eight.”
Gerald squinted to see the clock across the visitation room. “Clock over there says 8:13. Don’t cheat a condemn’ man outta two minutes.”
“You look like hell.”
“What the fuck you expec’? They gonna hook me up to the needle and juice me.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Nothin’.”
“It was her again.”
“She was scared. I told her I wasn’t gonna hurt her. But she was scared.”
“If you ask me, you’re the one who’s looking scared. You don’t have to be.” Reverend Rob rolled out his reconciliation sermon. “God’s mercy is a wonderful thing. If he can forgive me for molesting boys and help me find peace, he can do the same for you. That’s what the parable I was reading you is all about.”
“Save your breath.”
Reverend Rob went on undeterred. “This son had squandered his inheritance on loose women and was living in squalor. When he came to his senses and asked for forgiveness, his father killed the fatted calf and threw a huge party. It can be the same for you.”
“Only calf they gonna kill is me.” Gerald smirked.
“God wants to forgive you, all you have to do is ask.” Nineteen years of subtlety hadn’t worked; Reverend Rob tried a more direct approach. He turned to the Gospel of Luke and read a passage highlighted in yellow, “See, it says here, ‘I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.’ I can’t do it for you, Gerry.”
Gerald clasped his lips tight around another Marlboro. His lips trembled as he fought the urge to speak. He could see the tall grass dancing on the banks of the Amite River. He was on top of her staring down into those bright blue eyes, her ponytail fanned out in the grass beneath her head. The muscles in her throat quivered. She was so damn sexy. He leaned in and kissed her. She clenched her lips tight. She wanted to fight.
He pinned her wrists to the ground above her head with one hand and wrestled her shorts down with the other. Her eyes were wild, her breaths shallow and hot on his neck. She wiggled and kicked to get away.
He clawed and ripped at her shorts with his free hand. The button gave way. He pushed her shorts to her ankles and off one foot; he released her hands and went for his zipper to release his fury.
She screamed.
“My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear.” Father Rob read from Job. “I confess my iniquity; I am troubled by my sin.” He stopped to look at Gerald. “Your eyes look troubled, Gerald.”
“No. No trouble,” his voice faded. “I didn’t do anythin’ she didn’t want.”
Father Rob shook his head. He was obviously angry, but he never raised his voice. “Is that what you’re going to tell the Almighty when you meet him in four hours? You can’t rationalize sin away, Gerry. I tried it on D-Block, but it chased me down, just like yours is haunting you tonight.”
“Nothin’ hauntin’ me but you an’ your Bible verses.” Gerald threw himself to his feet and stormed out the open cell door. “Let’s do it! Let’s do it! NOW!” His eyes darted around the visitation room. “Guard! Guard! Damn it, let’s get this over with!” He tore off his shirt and ran for the solid steel door hiding the injection table. “Guard! Guard!” Gerald ricocheted off the door.
Reverend Rob dropped his Bible and ran after him. He wrapped his arms around Gerald in a bear hug. Gerald’s chest and back were slick with sweat. Reverend Rob wrestled him to the ground and wrapped his own legs around Gerald’s flailing limbs.
“There’s a deep trench between blame and forgiveness, Gerald,” Reverend Rob panted. “It’s time for you to step across to the other side.”
Reverend Rob was reading again. "When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!”
“What time is it?”
“You’re awake. Just in time for the best part.” Reverend Rob had not moved from his spot outside the cell door.
“It’s dark. What time is it?” Beads of sweat ran from Gerald’s forehead into his eyes making it look like he’d been crying.
“Quarter after eight.”
Gerald squinted to see the clock across the visitation room. “Clock over there says 8:13. Don’t cheat a condemn’ man outta two minutes.”
“You look like hell.”
“What the fuck you expec’? They gonna hook me up to the needle and juice me.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Nothin’.”
“It was her again.”
“She was scared. I told her I wasn’t gonna hurt her. But she was scared.”
“If you ask me, you’re the one who’s looking scared. You don’t have to be.” Reverend Rob rolled out his reconciliation sermon. “God’s mercy is a wonderful thing. If he can forgive me for molesting boys and help me find peace, he can do the same for you. That’s what the parable I was reading you is all about.”
“Save your breath.”
Reverend Rob went on undeterred. “This son had squandered his inheritance on loose women and was living in squalor. When he came to his senses and asked for forgiveness, his father killed the fatted calf and threw a huge party. It can be the same for you.”
“Only calf they gonna kill is me.” Gerald smirked.
“God wants to forgive you, all you have to do is ask.” Nineteen years of subtlety hadn’t worked; Reverend Rob tried a more direct approach. He turned to the Gospel of Luke and read a passage highlighted in yellow, “See, it says here, ‘I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.’ I can’t do it for you, Gerry.”
Gerald clasped his lips tight around another Marlboro. His lips trembled as he fought the urge to speak. He could see the tall grass dancing on the banks of the Amite River. He was on top of her staring down into those bright blue eyes, her ponytail fanned out in the grass beneath her head. The muscles in her throat quivered. She was so damn sexy. He leaned in and kissed her. She clenched her lips tight. She wanted to fight.
He pinned her wrists to the ground above her head with one hand and wrestled her shorts down with the other. Her eyes were wild, her breaths shallow and hot on his neck. She wiggled and kicked to get away.
He clawed and ripped at her shorts with his free hand. The button gave way. He pushed her shorts to her ankles and off one foot; he released her hands and went for his zipper to release his fury.
She screamed.
“My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear.” Father Rob read from Job. “I confess my iniquity; I am troubled by my sin.” He stopped to look at Gerald. “Your eyes look troubled, Gerald.”
“No. No trouble,” his voice faded. “I didn’t do anythin’ she didn’t want.”
Father Rob shook his head. He was obviously angry, but he never raised his voice. “Is that what you’re going to tell the Almighty when you meet him in four hours? You can’t rationalize sin away, Gerry. I tried it on D-Block, but it chased me down, just like yours is haunting you tonight.”
“Nothin’ hauntin’ me but you an’ your Bible verses.” Gerald threw himself to his feet and stormed out the open cell door. “Let’s do it! Let’s do it! NOW!” His eyes darted around the visitation room. “Guard! Guard! Damn it, let’s get this over with!” He tore off his shirt and ran for the solid steel door hiding the injection table. “Guard! Guard!” Gerald ricocheted off the door.
Reverend Rob dropped his Bible and ran after him. He wrapped his arms around Gerald in a bear hug. Gerald’s chest and back were slick with sweat. Reverend Rob wrestled him to the ground and wrapped his own legs around Gerald’s flailing limbs.
“There’s a deep trench between blame and forgiveness, Gerald,” Reverend Rob panted. “It’s time for you to step across to the other side.”
Thursday, December 3, 2009
BLAME AND FORGIVENESS 2
Part one
The electric motors droned again. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?
The dark outline of a man in black turned sideways and slid through the doors as soon as they cracked open. He carried a large Bible in one hand and a small, polished brass case of communion wafers and a glass vial of holy water in the other – everything he needed to assist a dying man.
Reverend James Robichaux, formerly of The Resurrection Episcopal Church, hurried across the waxed linoleum. Reverend Rob, as the lifers called him, was part of the state’s catch and release program. He earned his calling in prison ministries the hard way, touching altar boys under their cassocks.
Three years into a 10-year sentence at Angola, the reverend found renewed faith through the good book. When he finished his sentence, he left the confines of D-Block for death row. He’d been visiting the condemned and saving souls for the last 20 years.
He peered through the bars at Gerald’s hand resting on the bulge between his legs. “Don’t be ashamed.”
“Who said anythin’ ’bout shame? I’m rememberin’ good times, Rev.”
“Well, it’s just that I would think that a man at your stage in life would turn his attention away from the physical and toward the spiritual.”
Gerald reluctantly moved his hand.
“Have you thought about our last conversation?”
“Confession? Confession’s what got me in here. That cunt, Jennifer, was wearin’ a wire. Ain’t got nothin’ to confess to you.”
“I’ve met lots of innocent men in this prison, Gerry, but none as mule-headed as you.” Reverned Rob sighed and scratched his balding head. “I’m not asking you to confess to me. I don’t need it. You’ve got to make peace with yourself and with God.” He took a folding chair time-worn Bible to Ezekiel and read. “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live.”
“Save it, Rev.” Gerald fished in his pocket for another cigarette. His mind was 19 years away. He could see the sweat glistening on Chastity’s neck, and he followed the beads inside her shirt between her small, perky tits. He stared at her swollen nipples. She turned to climb the steps of the trailer and flashed him a sly smile over her shoulder. She knew exactly what he wanted. Gerald followed her.
The scent of wildflowers in her deodorant mingled with the stale air in the unair-conditioned living room. Her bicep tensed in his grasp. She gasped, surprised he had followed her. Gerald knew the game. He lingered just a moment to savor the fear in her eyes.
The electric motors droned again. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?
The dark outline of a man in black turned sideways and slid through the doors as soon as they cracked open. He carried a large Bible in one hand and a small, polished brass case of communion wafers and a glass vial of holy water in the other – everything he needed to assist a dying man.
Reverend James Robichaux, formerly of The Resurrection Episcopal Church, hurried across the waxed linoleum. Reverend Rob, as the lifers called him, was part of the state’s catch and release program. He earned his calling in prison ministries the hard way, touching altar boys under their cassocks.
Three years into a 10-year sentence at Angola, the reverend found renewed faith through the good book. When he finished his sentence, he left the confines of D-Block for death row. He’d been visiting the condemned and saving souls for the last 20 years.
He peered through the bars at Gerald’s hand resting on the bulge between his legs. “Don’t be ashamed.”
“Who said anythin’ ’bout shame? I’m rememberin’ good times, Rev.”
“Well, it’s just that I would think that a man at your stage in life would turn his attention away from the physical and toward the spiritual.”
Gerald reluctantly moved his hand.
“Have you thought about our last conversation?”
“Confession? Confession’s what got me in here. That cunt, Jennifer, was wearin’ a wire. Ain’t got nothin’ to confess to you.”
“I’ve met lots of innocent men in this prison, Gerry, but none as mule-headed as you.” Reverned Rob sighed and scratched his balding head. “I’m not asking you to confess to me. I don’t need it. You’ve got to make peace with yourself and with God.” He took a folding chair time-worn Bible to Ezekiel and read. “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live.”
“Save it, Rev.” Gerald fished in his pocket for another cigarette. His mind was 19 years away. He could see the sweat glistening on Chastity’s neck, and he followed the beads inside her shirt between her small, perky tits. He stared at her swollen nipples. She turned to climb the steps of the trailer and flashed him a sly smile over her shoulder. She knew exactly what he wanted. Gerald followed her.
The scent of wildflowers in her deodorant mingled with the stale air in the unair-conditioned living room. Her bicep tensed in his grasp. She gasped, surprised he had followed her. Gerald knew the game. He lingered just a moment to savor the fear in her eyes.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
BLAME AND FORGIVENESS
This was her fault – that bitch. Rage burned in his gut. She did this to him. And he let her.
Gerald Blount sat on a cold steel bench kicking himself. He gritted his teeth behind the butt of the cigarette in his lips. Tendrils of cigarette smoke, like the wilted ivy guarding the walls outside, tangled around his graying head.
This was all her fault – those fried-egg tits, that innocent smile – that fucking tease. Gerald grinned an evil smirk at the thought of her name. What parent names their kid Chastity? She had no choice but to grow up swinging half-naked around a chrome pole.
Gerald filled his lungs with smoke and paced through his new home. Four steps from one end to the other, but it was still bigger than his last room. The sting of pine disinfectant in the cool air made his eyes water. A stainless steel bowl and basin sparkled in the far corner. He turned and unrolled a fresh mattress across the shining slab of steel that was his bed. Inmates had scrubbed the concrete bricks inside and splashed a fresh coat of paint on the bars.
Angola’s death house was nothing at all like death row.
He stooped to look at his fuzzy reflection in the polished steel above the basin. Big purple bags puffed under his dark eyes. An atlas of wrinkles drooped across his sallow cheeks and forehead. Gerald set his Marlboro on the edge of the toilet bowl and cupped his hands under the faucet. There was a time when his hands were strong enough to choke the life out of a man. Eighteen years on death row, where the most strenuous activity was turning a page in his prison-issue Bible, had withered his hands and the rest of his once-rugged physique. His prison-issue blue jeans and denim shirt hung loosely on his scarecrow frame. She did this to him.
Gerald sneered at the tired face in the cold steel. He loathed the man he had become. And it wasn’t his fault.
Gerald’s reflection scowled back at him. Chastity wasn’t the only one to blame. Jennifer and Lisa were just as guilty. The thought of Lisa’s name tugged the corners of his mouth toward a half-hearted grin. Even though she had a part in this, he couldn’t hate her. Not like he hated the others. She was already dead; hating her served no purpose.
Brass keys clanged at the entrance to the death house rattling Gerald from his day dream. Electric motors rumbled their familiar, quiet call as they slid the heavy steel doors open. Through his cell bars and across the visitation room, Gerald watched Warden Johnson limp in and thank the guard. The guard twisted his big brass keys again; the electric motors hummed the doors closed.
“You got a sick sense of humor, Warden.” Gerald rasped as he hung one skeletal arm through the bars.
“What do you mean?” Warden Walton Johnson answered in his trademark drawl, equal parts good ole boy and televangelist.
“The way you leave the cell door open, like a convic’ got freedom to come and go as he please. Where I’m gonna go? Ain’t got but three rooms, my cell, the death chamber, and the visitation room. Ain’t nobody comin’ see me. Then, if I do sit in there, the Cajun Injector starin’ me in the face.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way Gerald,” the squat warden stepped through the open cell door. “We try to make an inmate’s last hours as comfortable as we can.” The warden checked his watch. 12:09. “We’ve got a little housekeeping to take care of, Gerald.” Gerald nodded and the warden continued with his standard death day litany. “The guards will come for you at 11:30. You know the drill: wrist and leg restraints.”
Gerald nodded again, “Last time I’ll be wearin’ those.”
“There will be three guards in case we have to carry you. It’ll be easier if you walk yourself.” He waited for Gerald to nod, but Gerald just stood there, his blank eyes fixed on the warden. “When you enter the death chamber, you’ll lie on the table, and the guards will remove your chains. They’ll put the straps around your arms, legs, and chest. Again, it’ll be easier if you don’t fight it.”
“Ain’t gonna fight. Only a guilty man scared of dyin’. I ain't done nothin’ she didn’t want me to.”
The warden just shook his head. “One of the guards will start an i.v. in your arm and another in your foot. You’ll have a chance to make a last statement. I suggest you apologize and ask forgiveness. Then, at midnight, we’ll start the procedure.”
Warden Johnson didn’t mince words. He described the process of killing a man like he was reading a procedure manual. “The first drug will put you to sleep. The next one will paralyze your entire muscular system. The last will stop your heart.” He waited for a reaction but got none. “Your spiritual advisor will be here later. He’ll sit with you till the end.”
“Don’t need no advisor, ’less he got a stay in his back pocket.” Gerald forced a grin.
“There’s comfort in the Lord, Gerald. Maybe the chaplain can help you find the strength to admit your sins and seek forgiveness.”
Gerald shook his head. “This ain’t my fault. That bitch did it. Ain’t nothin’ in that Bible you give me ’bout admittin’ somethin’ you ain’t done. I oughta know. I read it enough times.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Gerald. I’ll be praying for you.”
Gerald watched the Warden waddle out of sight, then lay back on his mattress. He thought of the last time he saw Chastity, and smiled a half-smile. She was a fine young thing: hair pulled in a big, blonde ponytail, short-shorts showing off the bottom of her tight, tanned ass, and a pink crop-top with “Tease” written across it in bubble letters – like anyone who saw her would have doubted it. She was standing in the dirt yard outside her trailer, her sandaled foot propped on the tire of a dead Cutlass 88. He could see her like it was yesterday.
Gerald traced the curve of her calf in his mind. Her skin was soft and smooth. He reached to hide the swelling in his crotch, just like he did on that day. She had a way of doing that to him. . .That bitch.
Gerald Blount sat on a cold steel bench kicking himself. He gritted his teeth behind the butt of the cigarette in his lips. Tendrils of cigarette smoke, like the wilted ivy guarding the walls outside, tangled around his graying head.
This was all her fault – those fried-egg tits, that innocent smile – that fucking tease. Gerald grinned an evil smirk at the thought of her name. What parent names their kid Chastity? She had no choice but to grow up swinging half-naked around a chrome pole.
Gerald filled his lungs with smoke and paced through his new home. Four steps from one end to the other, but it was still bigger than his last room. The sting of pine disinfectant in the cool air made his eyes water. A stainless steel bowl and basin sparkled in the far corner. He turned and unrolled a fresh mattress across the shining slab of steel that was his bed. Inmates had scrubbed the concrete bricks inside and splashed a fresh coat of paint on the bars.
Angola’s death house was nothing at all like death row.
He stooped to look at his fuzzy reflection in the polished steel above the basin. Big purple bags puffed under his dark eyes. An atlas of wrinkles drooped across his sallow cheeks and forehead. Gerald set his Marlboro on the edge of the toilet bowl and cupped his hands under the faucet. There was a time when his hands were strong enough to choke the life out of a man. Eighteen years on death row, where the most strenuous activity was turning a page in his prison-issue Bible, had withered his hands and the rest of his once-rugged physique. His prison-issue blue jeans and denim shirt hung loosely on his scarecrow frame. She did this to him.
Gerald sneered at the tired face in the cold steel. He loathed the man he had become. And it wasn’t his fault.
Gerald’s reflection scowled back at him. Chastity wasn’t the only one to blame. Jennifer and Lisa were just as guilty. The thought of Lisa’s name tugged the corners of his mouth toward a half-hearted grin. Even though she had a part in this, he couldn’t hate her. Not like he hated the others. She was already dead; hating her served no purpose.
Brass keys clanged at the entrance to the death house rattling Gerald from his day dream. Electric motors rumbled their familiar, quiet call as they slid the heavy steel doors open. Through his cell bars and across the visitation room, Gerald watched Warden Johnson limp in and thank the guard. The guard twisted his big brass keys again; the electric motors hummed the doors closed.
“You got a sick sense of humor, Warden.” Gerald rasped as he hung one skeletal arm through the bars.
“What do you mean?” Warden Walton Johnson answered in his trademark drawl, equal parts good ole boy and televangelist.
“The way you leave the cell door open, like a convic’ got freedom to come and go as he please. Where I’m gonna go? Ain’t got but three rooms, my cell, the death chamber, and the visitation room. Ain’t nobody comin’ see me. Then, if I do sit in there, the Cajun Injector starin’ me in the face.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way Gerald,” the squat warden stepped through the open cell door. “We try to make an inmate’s last hours as comfortable as we can.” The warden checked his watch. 12:09. “We’ve got a little housekeeping to take care of, Gerald.” Gerald nodded and the warden continued with his standard death day litany. “The guards will come for you at 11:30. You know the drill: wrist and leg restraints.”
Gerald nodded again, “Last time I’ll be wearin’ those.”
“There will be three guards in case we have to carry you. It’ll be easier if you walk yourself.” He waited for Gerald to nod, but Gerald just stood there, his blank eyes fixed on the warden. “When you enter the death chamber, you’ll lie on the table, and the guards will remove your chains. They’ll put the straps around your arms, legs, and chest. Again, it’ll be easier if you don’t fight it.”
“Ain’t gonna fight. Only a guilty man scared of dyin’. I ain't done nothin’ she didn’t want me to.”
The warden just shook his head. “One of the guards will start an i.v. in your arm and another in your foot. You’ll have a chance to make a last statement. I suggest you apologize and ask forgiveness. Then, at midnight, we’ll start the procedure.”
Warden Johnson didn’t mince words. He described the process of killing a man like he was reading a procedure manual. “The first drug will put you to sleep. The next one will paralyze your entire muscular system. The last will stop your heart.” He waited for a reaction but got none. “Your spiritual advisor will be here later. He’ll sit with you till the end.”
“Don’t need no advisor, ’less he got a stay in his back pocket.” Gerald forced a grin.
“There’s comfort in the Lord, Gerald. Maybe the chaplain can help you find the strength to admit your sins and seek forgiveness.”
Gerald shook his head. “This ain’t my fault. That bitch did it. Ain’t nothin’ in that Bible you give me ’bout admittin’ somethin’ you ain’t done. I oughta know. I read it enough times.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Gerald. I’ll be praying for you.”
Gerald watched the Warden waddle out of sight, then lay back on his mattress. He thought of the last time he saw Chastity, and smiled a half-smile. She was a fine young thing: hair pulled in a big, blonde ponytail, short-shorts showing off the bottom of her tight, tanned ass, and a pink crop-top with “Tease” written across it in bubble letters – like anyone who saw her would have doubted it. She was standing in the dirt yard outside her trailer, her sandaled foot propped on the tire of a dead Cutlass 88. He could see her like it was yesterday.
Gerald traced the curve of her calf in his mind. Her skin was soft and smooth. He reached to hide the swelling in his crotch, just like he did on that day. She had a way of doing that to him. . .That bitch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
