I can't remember
The last time you cared about anything
The last time you allowed yourself to be seen
so pretentious your lies unrelenting disguise
Creating tears in your eyes your mind withers and dies
pretending to be something you are not
somewhere in the middle you are now caught
You've never seen who you really are
No life breathes in you
All the time you laugh you wait you cry
No part of your life is true
All the time your life passes you by
I don't ever want to see I don't ever want to be like you, Hollow Man
I don't care what you give
Hollow man you can't live like this

Your voice is just a whisper
You call upon your blank thoughts as you try
To fit in where you missed her
You missed the chance to stop living a lie

Trapt- "Hollowman"

--

"Shit Jonesy, did you have to kill him?"

The corrections officer who hadn't spoken, known to his co-workers as Jonesy, scratched his head and retorted defensively.

"Glick, I wasn't trying to kill him. It just happened. I had to stop him from escaping."

Glick held his hands out in front of him, defending his judgment while calming Jonesy.

"It's alright, it's all okay. You were just doing your job. He was practically a lifer anyway. There's just a lot of paper work and calls to make now."

"What do we got to do?"

Glick stared digging in a filing cabinet as he spoke.

"He wasn't expecting on dying I guess, so there is probably no will or anything. I guess he's ward of the state unless we find a next of kin."

"He even got a contact person? You know I'm feeling kinda shitty here."

Glick found the file he was looking for and reassured Jonesy.

"You did right, don't worry about it. Hmm, let me see…name: Marquez, Julian; race: Latin American; age: 27; eyes: blue…heh, yeah right, like a woman lying about her weight; hair black…blah, blah, blah. Here we are. There's no next of kin, but he did have a recent visitor. A Mr. Ken Masters."

"So we call him, right?"

Glick's eyes got wide and he shook his head no. Jonesy got the picture and all but panicked.

"Shit Glick. This scum shit was a friend to Ken Masters of Masters Enterprises?! I'm dead, I'm fucking dead as this fuck!"

"Hey! Calm down. I got this, Jonesy. You were just doing your fucking job! This shit would be alive right now if he hadn't tried to escape. I'll handle it. We'll contact Mr. Masters with our heartfelt apologies for overlooking their connection after we bury Mr. Marquez."

--

Cammy waited for an answer from Cranky. He had some drug lords or something after him and she was not about to sit around and play the damsel in distress. What could have happened was bad, really bad and all Cranky could do was sit on the floor with a dumbfounded look on his face. She spoke again.

"What the hell Cranky? Tell me what just happened."

He sighed loudly and finally spoke as he pulled his bath towel back around his waist.

"I'm not in the Army."

"I figured as much!"

"Let me talk dammit!"

Cammy stood, yelling now.

"Well talk! Say something to make up for what just fucking happened!"

"I said sorry. I owe them some money. Well actually a lot of money."

"Well pay them back, what's so hard?"

Cammy began to dress, listening to Cranky's excuse.

"I did pay them back, with some to spare. But that's not what's wrong."

"Well what's wrong?"

"I conned them out of the money, so in addition to being pissed about that, their pride was hurt."

Cammy crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him accusingly.

"You're a con artist?"

Cranky smiled.

"Well I wouldn't call myself an artist exactly."

"Oh my God! You're just a common criminal. Tricking old ladies into giving you their Social Security."

"Hey! I never trick old ladies."

"Just everyone else?"

"Yeah pretty much. I've had a hard life."

"So has everyone else, including me."

Cranky was getting angry. Just who did Cammy think she was pointing the finger at him like that? He stood and began dressing also as he spoke, his anger apparent in his voice.

"You were raped how long ago? You're obviously capable of having sex. I hear the psychological symptoms of rape should only last like three months, and you're still whining. Boo-fucking-hoo. I'm just looking out for number one."

"Don't you belittle me! You have no earthly idea the hell—"

"I don't want to hear any sad slumber party stories. I just want to get my shit and leave."

Cammy laughed. It was sardonic which kind of gave Cranky a chill. She walked towards him as she spoke slowly, picking each word carefully.

"You would piss your pants at even the slightest mention of what I've seen and done."

Cranky didn't like having the upper hand taken from him, especially not from a woman. He answered Cammy, intending on causing as much pain to her as possible.

"I've seen all there is to see…"

He looked her up and down, slowing his gaze on all of the questionable areas of her body before he continued.

"…had all there is to have. And from the looks of it, so have a lot of other guys."

"You bastard!"

"The truth isn't being a bastard!"

Cammy couldn't control her rage. Her movement was instinct more than any thing. She stepped forward and reared her arm back to deliver a sharp slap to Cranky's face. He caught her arm mid air.

"Momma, why do you let him do this?"

The young man stood in the doorway of the bathroom and spoke to his mother who was curled between the bathtub and the toilet. He could hear her tearful sobs turning into dry ones and was hoping to reason with her this time. His father's rage had moved from him to include his mother. Worst of all, while one would think that split attention would make the beatings less severe, they'd only gotten worse. His mother answered his question.

"I don't let him do anything, Craig. You think I want him to do this to me?"

She looked up at him and he could see where she'd tried to wipe blood from under her nose. She hadn't even bothered with the blood on her lip. That was just her face. He knew his father liked to twist arms to their breaking points. He'd had three casts in his lifetime to prove that. He heard his mother mumble under her breath.

"I wish he'd leave me alone and stick to you."

The boy's heart broke. Here he was trying to comfort his mother and she wished her beating upon him. He wasn't a small child anymore. He knew what betrayal was. He spoke in a last ditch effort.

"Momma, you don't mean that. Please say you don't!"

She stood up and walked towards him. He waited for her embrace, her previous disloyalty already forgiven. It never came. Only the all too familiar feeling of pain as his face and body was assaulted by her hard slaps and punches. He was stronger than his mother being he was fourteen and had almost a foot on her. But fighting back wasn't an option. This beating was his last. Tonight he was leaving, for good.

Cranky spoke through clenched teeth as he held Cammy's wrist.

"I'm not your punching bag. Beat on something else before I have to show you how it feels."

Cammy looked at him, a calm overriding the outrage her face held at first.

"Show me how it feels."

Cranky tightened his hold on her wrist and Cammy sprung into action. She twisted free from his hold, which was easy since she had the element of surprise on her hand. Continuing in a circle, she swept Cranky's feet out from under him, knocking him to the ground. Then she went down on one knee with the other leg stretched high into the air, bringing it down on his breast bone. She heard the wind leave his body from the sheer power of her blow. She stood and took a step back as she spat at him.

"Is that how it feels?"

He just looked at her for a moment before he spoke.

"What in the blue hell?"

"Now that the pissing contest is over, how about we figure out a way to get you out of this mess?"

--

Ken Masters remembered once hearing that a child stops waking up in the middle of the night for feedings by age one. They were wrong he thought as he warmed a bottle for his 18 month old son, Mel. Ken took the odd nights of the month and Eliza took the even months. Of course he rarely slept through odd nights. He bitched but in truth he loved every second of it. This is the thing most fathers never experience. But Ken was a determined father; after all he was responsible for this life in his arms. Thankfully Mel could hold his own bottle, though at moments he decided not to, so Ken had a free hand to do whatever else could be done during the hour of feeding. Usually concentrating on backed up paper work, it was like overtime. Though other nights Ken had admit to being an avid QVC shopper and Web surfer. As he turned on his computer screen he noticed a new e-mail blinking. It was from the L.A. County Correctional Facility. Ken was hoping for a early parole hearing for Julian. He didn't think he would last too much longer in solitary confinement. The last time he visited Julian hadn't spoken, hell he hadn't even looked at Ken. He just stayed on his small cot staring at the wall.

Ken opened the e-mail and felt his heart sink. He yelled.

"Eliza! Get in here!"

His outburst scared Mel and he began to cry loudly as Ken sat motionless, dumbstruck by what he was reading. Within moments Eliza was in the room, questioning him.

"What's wrong?"

"Just take Mel, please."

Ken held his son out to his wife, his arms shaking slightly. Eliza quickly grabbed him.

"Ken?"

"Just leave me alone for now."

"I want to help with whatever—"

"Please Eliza!"

She nodded and did what he asked, closing his office door behind her. Ken fell to his knees by his desk, his strawberry blonde hair falling into his tear filled eyes. Julian was someone he considered his closest friend. He was a good man, in jail for turning him self over to the police. A sorrowful wail escaped from Ken's throat as he fell completely onto the floor. Julian was dead.