Vengeful Redemption

Chapter 2

"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them."

Bruce Lee,

AVERY

Standing abruptly, I square my shoulders, but it's all bravado. I always sell it. It's what my father taught me. His condescending voice plays in my head like a track. "even if you're ready to spew ur breakfast, bite ur tongue and hold ur breath, girl. You're a Conway. The world is at your fingertips, so act like it." I hide my grimace and gesture for the guard to proceed.

As I hold my revoked statement, the scene plays out again.

Mr. Trien standing over the poor man bleeding out. Trien's mouth is twisted in a cruel, satisfied grin.

I shake my head, clearing the image from my thoughts, reflecting on the path that led me here . When things didn't quite add up. I dug for over two years. I had to pay a lot to get the right people to talk. What still stumps me is what Mr. Trien was doing there. He has no ties to anyone. That's when I realized I made a terrible mistake. The actual assailant had run off with the murder weapon, which has now been found thanks to me.

Now that I know the body bleeding out wasn't an innocent man (he was a sex trafficker who was gunned down by another rival sex trafficker). The situation doesn't feel as tragic. Sudden guilt washes over me for my judgment. It's fleeting when I think of the poor women he made suffer. Though it's not my call, I can't argue the world is a better place with one less criminal. I mean, when you get in a line of work like that, you must know it comes with risks, especially the ultimate one. I learned a lot using my dad's resources to dig into the seemingly unsolved case. I also can't get over the circumstantial evidence or Mr. Trien's "rumored" dealings. Although I know for a fact who pulled the trigger and he's coincidentally presumed dead at present.

The guard kindly clears his throat to get my attention. I adjust my glasses it's a nervous tick I keep trying to correct. Dropping my hand, I incline my head and muster my most authoritative voice. At least I hope it comes off that way. I pass him the envelope telling him about the evidence (the assailant's gun found at his house along with traces of blood). My retracted statement and the new statement.

He goes over it like procedure, but I know he knows who my father is. I won't be denied whether the man is innocent or guilty. My dad is the owner of Conway Air International, currently running for president, and everyone knows that's just a formality too.

The guard starts the process and tells me to take a seat. I turn to leave when his hand grips my wrist. His Weasley eyes bore into mine. "Are you sure about this, Mrs. Conway? Ain't no one ever left mortalcine before. He won't be right in the head." I yank my wrist out of his hold, look him square in the eye and assure him. "I'm positive."

As I sit there with nothing but a guilty conscience, one thought plays over and over.

I did this. I sent an innocent man to a place like this. On the outside, this place looks normal, but on the inside, I know it's not. Though I haven't seen it on the account that no one is supposed to know it exists. This abomination, amongst others, has been explained to me in specific detail by my once loving and now bitter and cruel uncle. He is one of three people who know of Mortalcine. He explained the basics of the prison to me with an almost gleeful cheer. The cells never lock unless there is a murder. There are no guards present. The only exception is top floor entrance to drop scrap foods in a bucket on a dirt floor. My main concern is the morbid oddity of having no light or electricity and its location being over fifty feet below ground level. I nervously begin to fidget before quickly correcting myself by folding my arms and straightening my spine. Without turning my head, I scan the room to see if anyone has noticed the slight, but the top of the guard head is the only thing I see.
Easing slightly, I fall back to the thought of my Uncle Ray with regretful sorrow. He wasn't always like this. Ray used to work at Mortalcine. They let him go when a prisoner tried to escape and paralyzed my poor uncle from the waist down. He was "serving" food. If you can call it that, although I'm not entirely sure it has always been the way it is now. Anyhow, before the accompanied guard could shoot the prisoner in the head. My uncle was sliced up his spine deep and true. I shudder at the thought.