𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥

Randy's hands were shoved deep into his pockets, head ducked low as the guard guided him through the wide, twisting corridors of Lucia State Sanitorium and Correctional Facility. He didn't look up off the reflective, grey tiled floor, too invested in watching his reflection morph as he walked.

Visiting his attempted murderer seemed like a better idea in the car. It took Randy half an hour alone to convince himself to step out of the parking lot while he still had the chance. Magnetic energy hummed through the walls of the facility. His steps were uneven and his mouth was dry.

He'd tried calling Dewey from a payphone by the side of the road, but the fucker was too drunk to hear the phone ring. It was probably for the best, anyway. Randy didn't want anyone else to try and talk him out of it. Battling his own self-preservation was a challenge on its own.

"Keep at least three feet away from the glass at all times," said the guard, twirling a long black lanyard between her fingers. "Don't put anything through the meal slot, and don't do anything to provoke the inmate."

Randy nodded, finally looking up as they approached the brick wall at the end of the corridor. He had enough sense to cringe at the thought of breaking any of those rules. She'd probably recited them a million times before to a million other people. He wondered how many of them bothered to listen.

The guard narrowed her eyes and gestured toward the air with her chin. "I'll be back in fifteen to collect you."

Fifteen minutes was more than enough time to say what he needed to say and get the hell out of dodge.

It wasn't until the guard's loud footsteps became a distant clacking in his ears that Randy dared himself to turn and face the brick room, encased behind a thick layer of plexiglass and completely sealed off from the rest of the corridor.

There was a short cot pressed against the furthest wall with a rusted porcelain sink close by. Hovering above it was a chipped mirror that he caught his own reflection in, and a worn wooden writing desk on the opposite wall. Bare, but comfortable with all things considered.

It made Randy sick knowing that someone like Mickey had access to such basic amenities. He should be rotting in prison for the hell that he put you through.

A shadow shifted in the furthest corner of the cell. Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear.

"Randy fucking Meeks!"

Mickey Altieri melted out of the inky blackness and sauntered into the center stage of his confined room. He was clapping slowly, head shaking with the twisted smile that had haunted Randy for months on end. "I thought I killed you, you sneaky bastard!"

"Yeah? You thought wrong."

"That's for sure."

Mickey crossed his arms in front of his thin cotton t-shirt, foot tapping and making the fabric of his baggy blue sweatpants stretch. 

"Christ, Hannibal Lector much?" Randy snorted, momentarily forgetting the promise he'd made to himself and the guard. Don't provoke the inmate.

But Mickey didn't seem provoked. He grinned and unfolded his arms, showing off his prison attire. "Isn't it cool? They've got an actual cannibal in here somewhere. Cell 35A, I think."

"I didn't come here to dig through the looney bin, Mickey."

"No?" he cocked his head at an unnatural angle and slinked closer to the glass barrier—the only thing preventing him from reaching out and latching a fist around his throat. "You came here just for me, Meeks?" He asked, batting his eyelashes.