Chapter IV: Monday.
He's been waiting for hours. The walls, oddly, seem like hollow. As if underneath the surface there lies a Universe unto its own. He reclines his head against it and grasps the edge of the bench in which he's been numbing himself for hours upon hours.
Prison is Hell, he tells himself. It's a different hell from the fire and brimstone one that old folks tell children about to get them to behave. But Hell nevertheless.
In this one, you can't move. The walls form a small cocoon that separates you from reality. It creates a unique reality for you. One where there is nothing but the knowledge that outside, the world is walking past you, laughing at you because you're an insignificant runt that is worth less than an ant. You don't exist anymore. Everybody forgets about you. Your wife falls in bed with your best friend. Your dog gets ran over by the milkman's truck. Your daughter will go to her prom and will end up getting pregnant with the child of a superficial, rich rat that will never take care of her. She'll live beneath a bridge, ashamed of her tainted history, and die of hunger with a baby clinging to her breast.
All of these thoughts will drive even the most collected men insane in mere moments while they stare at the empty walls inside a cell. The air is rough to breathe. A whisper roars throughout the halls mightier than a lion. Your mind betrays you. And when you are alone, exiled from everything that you hold dear, all you have to keep you company is yourself.
That is why Alfred Donahue is so impatient. All his life he has slept underneath blood-stained sheets. He's led a rich life. A life that has its gratifying benefits when you are more than willing to look away. Ignorance is bliss. And Alfred loves bliss. Or at least he did until today.
A bona fide "hero" of the common people, Donahue has served his years as city councilman of Los Angeles. Working in tandem with the Mayor, police force, federal government, and a lucrative, yet infamous law office known as Wolfram & Hart, where he is, to his surprise, currently being held.
In Los Angeles the influence of Wolfram & Hart extends from the government, to the talent industry, to "random" violence. This law office oversees every relevant deal that takes place inside the city's inviting walls. And for Councilman Donahue, tonight, Wolfram & Hart have expressed definite interest in his dealings.
He was picked up by two men in black suits at a very exclusive gentlemen's club were young, beautiful women desperately seeking money for their college tuition, or perhaps a crack in the walls of the proverbial unbreakable fortress that is the Hollywood talent industry, degrade themselves in otherwise expressions of affection with one another for the pleasures of the voyeuristic male, although sometimes female, audience. At first he did not realize that he was being carried to a van parked outside the entrance. All he was able to do at the moment was to stare at their seemingly odd blood-colored ties. An effect due from a long night of sinful desire and inhumane amounts of liquor.
He was beaten unconscious once inside the van, and driven to the premises of Wolfram & Hart. Now, as he waits for his jailer to come claim him, he clings to the bench, trying desperately to maintain sanity. A slow, hammering hum slithers into his ears perversely. He continually tries to block it out, but the surreal humming feels despairingly magical. He walks up to the bars and grabs them with slight force. He pushes his gaze as far as he can towards the end of the hallway, and sees a large black vault door. He shuts his eyes and feels the dreadful noise coming from its direction.
"Could you stop that, for the love of God?" he asks painfully.
The humming drags itself into a screeching unintelligible whisper. Alfred looks up towards the lights across the hall as they begin to palpitate. The air feels cooler and the whisper becomes all the more encompassing. He lets go of the bars and as he steps back a cold grip suddenly takes hold of his shoulder, and with a frightful gasp of pure horror, Alfred's very soul attempts to escape its fleshy prison. He falls against the bars and unto the floor. The whisper dissipates into a slow, rasping laughter that chills his bones.
The doors at the entrance of the hall open and as such the rest of the nightmarish laughter disappears. Marcus Hamilton enters the hallway and walks towards Alfred's cell with a gleeful smile on his face and a set of keys between his fingers.
"What's the matter, Councilman?" he responds after seeing Donahue lying on the floor. "Pavaine busting your chops?"
Alfred stumbles back to his feet and faces Hamilton, still shaken by the events that took place before he arrived. "Who... who are you?" he finally says.
"I'm Marcus Hamilton, personal assistant to the CEO of Wolfram & Hart, Councilman," responds Marcus with an easy smile on his lips. "I'm afraid that he's very affronted by your actions against our humble company and he's been looking forward for a chance to finally having a meeting with you."
The Councilman looks at him dead in the eye. Dread fills his soul, and every fear and unwelcome thought that crossed his mind before comes back full-force. He feels compelled to bellow his desperation unto Hamilton, but instead he just musters the strength to send a quiet prayer for his life. "Very well," he finally says while swallowing down his dry throat. "Let's get this over with."
Marcus opens the cell door and allows the Councilman out. As they head towards the exit door Marcus opens the door for Donahue and as he steps outside the door, he turns towards the hallway. "Good night, Mathias. Stop playing with the lights or I'll put a lot more volts than I care to count into your sockets the next time."
Hamilton closes the door behind him as he exits. A disturbed laughter emits from the farthest end of the hallway. Inside the cell is a man to whom death is no concern. A man gritting his teeth shut as little whispers of laughter escape his blood-stained lips. Maggots dripping from his bloodied, empty eye sockets, eating his skin away like parasites. Something that he finds deliriously ironic and delightful. Hell couldn't have him when he died. Yet he now lives eternally, always thirsting for the freedom of death, inside a cell. A parasite. Alone with his thoughts. His memories. Clamoring for relief.
Prison really is Hell.
Alfred walks towards the office of the CEO, escorted closely by Hamilton. Every given number of steps he wipes his hands against his pants. He touches his teeth with his tongue, masochistically searching for empty spaces where his molars used to be.
Inside, he notices a dark figure standing before a wall of light. It's morning and the sun is shining brighter than usual, or perhaps it could very well be his eyes attempting to adjust to the clarity of the sun after being in perpetual shadow for so many hours. He tries to focus his eye sight and slowly begins to discern the features in his face as he turns his way.
Wesley looks at the Councilman with a small glint of pity in his eyes. He walks towards him and smiles. "Good morning, Councilman," he says as he extends his hand towards Donahue. "I trust the accommodations were to your liking?"
"Slept like a log," replies the Councilman, denying Wesley the courtesy.
Wesley smirks cockily, "Right. Well, let's get down to business, shall we? Care to sit down?"
"I'd rather die on my own two feet, Pryce," responds Donahue as he watches Wesley walk around his desk towards his chair. "I just want to be done with this."
"Well, that's a damn shame, let me tell you," says Wesley sitting on his chair. "I brought you up here to plead your case. To try to appeal to my good nature. And here you are, spitting on me while I extend you a polite courtesy."
"I didn't think you guys had any good nature," he says chuckling coldly. "Glad to see I'm wrong."
Wesley takes a deep breath, and smiles at the Councilman. "Why'd you do it?" he asks curiously.
Donahue looks down, then glances back at Wesley. He sighs and responds, "I wanted out. I got tired of looking away. Too many nightmares. I couldn't bear to look at myself in the mirror anymore."
Wesley presses on. "But why now?"
"Good opportunity. Seemed like the right time."
"Did you really think you were going to get away with this?"
"I hoped, at best. But I figured you were gonna catch me eventually, so I didn't bother to run."
"So you sent your family packing to Norway on a vacation and went to a strip club. Got drunk and waited for us to pick you up," he says smirking while scratching his beard. "Interesting."
"How do you know where my family is?"
"Our people checked their flight tickets after an unfortunate incident forced the staff at the airport to bring all the passengers right back out," he notices Alfred's face grow pale from the dread. "Poor pilot died of a heart attack a couple of minutes before lift off. Never saw it coming. Probably had kids, a wife, couple mortgages, the works."
"What did you do to my family?" says Alfred. Fear and dread dripping from his lips as the words flow out of his mouth.
Wesley smirks and leans against his chair. "You really don't want to know," he finally responds.
Alfred feels his entire body grow numb. He feels tears flowing trough his cheeks, yet he can't muster the strength to lift his arms and wipe the off. Wesley nods towards Hamilton and he steps beside Donahue. He pulls out a .9 mm silver-plated silenced gun and points it steadily to Alfred's temple.
Alfred takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. A quiet flash of light devours the room in less than a second and as quickly it disappears. Blood splatters across the carpet floor and Alfred's body tumbles down a lifeless husk. Hamilton pulls the gun back into his jacket and grabs the body by its legs. He drags it throughout the carpet outside for disposal.
Wesley remains seated, quietly staring at the pool of blood staining the carpet floor. He rubs his eyes with both hands then leans forward to his desk. He picks up the phone and dials.
"Mrs. Donahue?" he says, "Yes, I'm from Wolfram & Hart. I'm very sorry for your loss. I know this is a difficult time for you and your children, but I'm calling you to inform you that your husband left you a considerable amount of money to you and your children... No they were set up in different accounts as trust funds, but under the circumstances they are available for you to collect them... Yes, inheritance... Yes, he was a very good man... No, no, you're absolutely right... It was completely unprecedented... Yes, from what I understand the police always take some time before showing the body for identification... Yes, indeed... Yes... No, of course, take all the time that you need... It's not a problem, I assure you... Yes... Yes, well, we'll talk later during the week... No problem, Mrs. Donahue... Yes... Goodbye."
He hangs up the telephone, and turns his chair towards the window. The powerful rays of light blind him. He feels his heart beating harder than before he cares to remember. Another day has begun at Wolfram & Hart.
Another prayer flies up into the sky.