Prologue
A/N: One of my darker pieces of work that's brought me back to fanfiction. I hope you enjoy, there is no official title right now, and clarity on what's happening is sure to come. Thanks for tuning in!
I sat on the cold empty seat confined by the suffocating walls and bars awaiting my father's response. He took off his thick black glasses, rubbed his drained looking eyes and placed them back on slowly. The gaze he gave me right then and there I will never be able to describe in words. It was so empty, so disappointed, so sad, so…there wasn't even a word for it. He stared at me for what seemed to be the longest five minutes in my life. Then he gave me the most sorrowful look I had ever seen, one that reflected the deepest depths of sorrow,
"I think you've got a good heart…but it's in the wrong place." At those words I was left speechless-he wasn't going to yell at me for my wrong doing's and indecency. I suppose that when adults say they're not mad, just disappointed in you, it hits you harder, lower. . I now stood there staring into my fathers eyes and could truthfully say I understood this concept better then I ever had before. I confess to my criminal past satiated with minor offenses and misdemeanors, but not murder, never murder. What was I to say? He wouldn't believe me if I told him the real truth. It's one of those instances where your history engrains in society an impression of corruption that's hard to escape.
"I'm sorry…" I uttered silently while gazing down at the cracks and crevasses in the floor.
"No William, I don't think so. You apologize after each arrest, and honestly I've lost all confidence in your words. What happened to you, son?" Silence can speak louder than words, and this was true of that moment that day. As I sat motionless, absorbed in reflection my father gave me one last look; his imbedded wrinkles contorted to console his sullen looking eyes that hung with grief and darkness to match the shadowy circles that rest beneath them. He briefly put his hand on my shoulder and dejectedly looked downward in a mix of nostalgia and regrets, then turned slowly to nod to the guard to release him from the cell. And that was the last I saw of my father.. .
I covered my face with my hands and tried recalling how things had gotten this bad. A lump started to surface within my throat, my face heated to a scarlet tenderness, and my hands began to tremble uncontrollably. Overwhelmed with fear, grief, regret, shame, disorientation, I broke down and cried. Never have I cried before, except when my mother passed away when I was 8. I was little, so it was acceptable for a boy to cry, because I was an unknowing child. Now, 12 years later, it was a disgrace and considered to me to be the worst thing I could do, and it would crush my honor. But that didn't surface in my mind, because this time things were bad, this time reality was unbearable.
"William Tooker, time's up, please follow me."
In my moment of grieving, I started remembering the very beginning of what later became my dreadful end.