So I've been gone for a while on vacation. The Caribbean is absolutely amazing! The cruise line was awesome and the food was even better–of course. But now I'm back and getting hit with inspiration left and right! I had an original story I wanted to post up here, but this idea tackled me to the ground and pinned me down until I told its story and well, here it is. By the way, I might actually use this idea as a real story and since I was thinking about The Mortal Instruments, I decided to use it as a FF instead. But I might actually consider writing this as a book, but differently, you know? Anyway, as always as usual: Critiques and reviews are welcome so long as they're kind or don't write anything at all, that's fine.

I'm running down a dark hallway towards a light at the end of the tunnel. I know outside of this reality, the light typically represents hope, an end to madness, but not for me. I know the light is deceiving and this thought is confirmed the moment I crash headlong into the light, glass shattering all around me, and land with a thud onto the hard ground after being airborne for what feels like eons.

I groan and attempt to open my eyes, but a sudden blow to my gut has me seeing stars behind my eyelids. Coughing, I roll over to my side and scamper up, then open my eyes. What I see makes me wish my eyelids were closed again and I'm several miles away from this place. But I know I can't back down, not after all I've done to get to where I am standing now, alive. Well, barely.

The black bottomless orbs that assess my body, taking in my cuts and bruises, are filled with malice and glee. A manic look of pure joy crosses the monster's face in front of me, but only for a fleeting second. Funny, how something so cruel, so cold, so evil can have the face of an angel. But as soon as the smile drops, it isn't so hard to believe anymore as the monster takes a step closer, a hand outstretched.

"My son," he whispers, closing the distance between us by placing his hand on my shoulder. His smile is back, but it's so cold, I shiver. "You came back."

I'm suddenly jolted awake when I feel a splash of icy cold water hit my face, shocking me to my senses. I sit up abruptly, rub my eyes and give my best glare to whoever is standing outside my cell, clutching a dripping bucket with a smirk on his face. Of course it's the warden.

"Good morning to you too, Sunshine," he smiles. "You've got a phone call."

I don't even bother dignifying him with a reply and pull a wife beater over my head before following the warden out of the cell, trailing behind him in deep thought. I wonder who's gracing me with their presence this time and pray to whatever greater force out there that hasn't given up on me yet that it isn't my lawyer again. Some people just don't know when to give up, especially when a lot is at stake.

But when I round the corner and step into the visiting room, I feel like I've just gotten socked in the gut the moment I spot her fidgeting in the chair on the other side of the glass window. The first thing I notice about her is that she's dressed up; her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her lips are stained with some color and she's wearing a gray business suit. The second thing I notice is the older identical woman sitting next to her dressed in a similar fashion but whereas she looks like she wants to be anywhere but here–and who could blame her?–the older woman looks genuinely pissed off.

I take a deep breath and not for the first time, crave a pack of cigarettes. I could bum one easily from Clancy–who is one of the guards in charge of the visiting room–but with her in the room, I bite my lip and suck it up.

I plop into the chair in front of the window and try as hard as I can to look nonchalant, as if we're anywhere but a penitentiary and we're discussing the weather. But it's just too damn hard to get away with, especially since this is the first time in ages that I've seen her. And damn, did I really miss out. In the back of my mind, I wonder how old our daughter is right now. Five? Ten? How many birthdays had I missed?

I quickly pick up the receiver, hoping no one notices just how shaky my hand is. "Hello?"

"You look awful," the older woman's voice crackles from the other end. Seriously, when was the last time they even bothered fixing up these phones? I see the crinkle to her nose and smile despite myself. She was always so dramatic. "And you smell worse."

"Oh, that's just Pablo's mom." I tilt my head to the side, indicating the booth next door. "She makes a mean Sloppy Joe from what I hear. Not that that's any different from what we eat here."

At that, I can't help but glance at her. She was an awful cook when I wasn't behind bars and I secretly wonder if motherhood changed that. Seems like everything and anything was possible at this point.

"Now why are you really here?" I ask, too tired to play any more games. "I was just having the loveliest dream back in my penthouse suite and I'd like to get back to that."

I know the sarcasm is harsh, but I can't help it. But what annoys me the most is when a look of pity crosses the older woman's face instead of rage, like I wanted to. Then, without my consent, her voice enters my mind. It's like a defense mechanism! You have no other way of venting without seeming to be "pathetic" in your own eyes so you hole yourself up and never let anyone in! Ever! Not even me!

Oh, but I did let you in, I reply mentally. And that's why I pushed you away the farthest.

But instead of replying to my snarky comment, she does what I never anticipated: she hands the phone over to her. I feel the blood pounding in my ears with the force of the Niagara Falls so loudly, I barely catch onto the last syllable of her greeting. "…ey."

"Hi," I say shyly, suddenly very antsy. I want to be anywhere but here, but my butt feels like it's glued in place. Because just as much as I wanted to be away from her…I wanted her so much more closer.

"Listen," she says loudly and I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling. She's trying so hard to be strong…"I have, um, something to tell you."

Suddenly, the pit of my stomach tightens up and I'm barely able to breathe. She's using a tone of voice she'd only used once before. The same tone of voice she used the day of my trial when she said she was officially signing our daughter under her custody alone. And right now, I'm handling the situation the same way I did after she shared that bit of news–very, very badly.

"What?" I deadpan. "What other bad news could you possibly tell me right now?"

She flinches and for a split second, I regret hurting her feelings. "I…I found someone else."

For a second I feel nothing, absolutely nothing. Then my walls come crumbling down and I feel every last drop of rage I've kept bottled up the past ten years I've spent in jail course through my body, lighting my blood on fire. I'm seething in the chair and the first thing I want to do is punch through the glass, reach through the other side and wrap my hands around that pretty little throat of hers…

But then I close my eyes and start my meditative breathing that I've been practicing on. Rage is bad…it's all-consuming…it doesn't get rid of pain, only causes more of it…there are other ways to control it…don't let it control you…

Eventually, I'm almost near having things all under control and I shock myself when I'm able to curl my lips up to feign a smile. Hopefully, it doesn't look too fake or menacing. "I'm glad for you," I croak. I rake a hand through my filthy long hair–I'm due for another haircut in a day or so–and count from ten backwards in English and Spanish before continuing. "Really. Our daughter needs a dad who'll be there for her, right?"

She gawks at me, as if my reaction isn't what she anticipated at all, but regains composure a minute later. "I-er, yes?" she stammers. "Yes, that's very true. Yes, yes. Um…"

"And may I ask who this man's identity is since he's replacing me?" I add in a bit of sarcasm just to throw her off-track that I don't feel a maelstrom of misery course throughout my body.

Now she's really flustered. She smoothes her hair with her hand, touches her earlobe twice and then smoothes out her skirt. All nervous mannerisms pointing to something that speaks louder than her words to me like a secret language. "None of your business," she says with a tone of finality. She stands up, smoothes out her skirt once more before adding, "Just know this: he's going to be a better father than you could ever be."

The older woman and I watch as she storms out of the visiting room and as soon as she's out the door, the older woman gives me another piteous glance before following suit. Once I'm left alone, I close my eyes, rest my elbows on the table and bury my face in my hands.

If only she knew the truth–no, scratch that. If only she believed me the first night I told her what happened, then I wouldn't be here, behind bars for about ten years while my wife is out and about looking for potential suitors to help bring up a daughter so that she could never know her father's true identity. A supposed murderer.

Well, at least I could read Clary like an open book. And she did smooth out her skirt twice, didn't she?