Disclaimer: I don't own Prison Break. My brain is broken. This is for my broken brain's entertainment only.
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I am not a father. At least not a good one. I couldn't be one to my own son—couldn't even acknowledge him. What made me think I could be one to an inmate?
Even as bright a one as Michael Scofield. The boy certainly had promise. A degree in structural engineering; a career with a prestigious firm. Why had he thrown it all away to rob a bank? To rob a bank badly, I might add. If I had asked myself that question months ago, I might not be in the situation I'm in now.
Scofield and seven other prisoners are gone. Over the walls of this place or under them, we still don't know. Investigators, state and federal, swarm over the prison like angry bees, all of their buzzing insinuating that I am to blame for the escape.
I should be outside, holding a press conference, running damage control. Instead, I've locked myself in my office to stare at the completed sculpture in the corner. A replica of the Taj Mahal made of sticks and glue, the white paint just starting to dry near the top. I meant it as a symbol of my love for my wife—my poor, long-suffering wife—but I couldn't build it on my own.
It was to be part of Scofield's rehabilitation. To remind him of what he lost when he left the outside world to join the other inmates here at Fox River. He took to the task with enthusiasm. I could see in the depth of his concentration how much he loved his work. I thought that maybe the time spent in this office would lead to a turning point in his life. Would put him on the right path again.
When we spoke several weeks ago, I mentioned that the shah who constructed the Taj Mahal also meant for another building—identical but dark—to be raised across from it. It was to be his tomb as the Taj Mahal was hers. That part of the history as always hit home hard for me. My wife is truly the pure one. The one who suffers needlessly for my sins. It is she who deserves a palace of perfect marble in which to reside. For me, I want to be near her, to share in every part of her, but I'm not worthy. I am in the dark one in our marriage. I hope, someday, she will forgive me that.
As for Scofield, it is as I said when he asked why the dark monument was never built:
"He was overthrown by his favorite son before he could finish it."