AN: I don't own the Green Mile! Please R&R!

The Man and his Revolver:

Brutus was working the night shift, and there were neither floaters nor other guards at the moment. They were short one guard, and the floaters were too lazy to get their asses over to E block. It was dangerous to be alone on the mile, accompanied with the prisoners; but Brutus was large enough to take down three convicts if such a situation occurred. Brutal walked along the mile, trying to pass the hours upon hours of doing absolutely nothing. He could only stare upon the prisoners with pity. Alex was weeping in a corner. He was to die in a couple of days, and the mile was going to receive a new convict only a few weeks later. Ever since the depression occurred, more and more people started committing crimes, just to get by in life. Brutus was fortunate enough to take the money and run with his accounts, but he felt for the many civilians who were struggling. Unfortunate events sent many to jail, maybe a couple onto Death Row. Brutal tapped on the cell bars with his baton, trying to get Alex's attention. He wanted to talk with the man, and see what the problem was at hand. Most of all, he wanted to know what the hell Freddie was saying to the lowly prisoner. He was probably badgering him, and toying with his mind. It looked like it; it looked like it was tearing him apart.

"Hey Alex," he greeted with a warm and compassionate smile. Brutus looked over his shoulder, and was relieved to see Freddie caught in a deep sleep. "Can I come in?"

Alex turned to face the guard and nodded. Brutal whipped the cell keys from the back of his pocket and twisted the key inside the keyhole. He opened the cell with a BANG, but it didn't seem to wake the other convict. Brutus quickly snatched a chair, and placed it inside the cell. He seated himself in front of the offender, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What do you want boss Howell?"

Brutal bore a soft expression upon his strong face. His voice soothed Alex considerably. "I need to talk to you about something important."

"Yes," Alex started. "It's about Freddie, isn't it?"

Brutus was predictable, and his curiosity had shown for the last day. "Yeah, what happened to Winnie?"

Alex ruffled his hair, "I cannot say."

"Why?" the guard questioned.

"Because," Alex started. "I'm not allowed to, or else Olson will come and kill me. Honestly, I want to die by the electric chair, not Olson."

Brutal was very confused at the situation. He squinted, "Who is Olson?"

Alex glanced to the side before looking back at Brutus. His sad expression grew to one of concern. "Boss Howell, are you okay?"

Brutal raised an eyebrow, "Of course, why?"

"You look dead. You should see your eyes. They weren't like that yesterday."

Brutal quickly rose from the chair. He closed the cell door, and locked it before running into the washroom; he bolted it tight. Shuffling into the small room, Brutus whipped his tall body towards the mirror; staring at it with pure concentration. As he gazed into the reflecting glass, he noticed that his appearance had changed considerably over the past few hours. His eyes were a bloodshot red, and the color from his face had completely drained. He suddenly felt weak; as if his bones were slowly turning into limp noodles. Brutus placed a hand onto his forehead, it was extremely warm. Then there was internal pain; his stomach was slightly churning, and his chest felt heavy. Every now and then a coughing fit would arise, but it would eventually go away. Last but not least, Brutal folded his pant leg up to his knee. He leaned downwards, gazing closely at the wound that he received weeks ago. The giant scab receded, but there was a considerably large amount of bruises surrounding the wound; they were a variety of colors and sizes. However, it still felt as if dozens of bees were injecting venom into his leg. Brutal touched the surface of the wound; there was a healthy amount of puss seeping from it. Apparently, he was doing a lousy job of keeping it clean. He washed it with creams every night, but it wasn't enough in this case. Brutus had no choice but to face the fact that he was getting sick. Was it flu season, or was the wound on his leg the catalyst for his ailment? Whatever the case, he hoped that he'd get better soon; but with one guard off for the week, and unable to attend the execution, he had no choice but to come into work, even if he was seriously ill.

The line was atrocious at the local bank. Again, it was long and Harry Terwilliger was stuck in the middle with nowhere to escape. He scanned the surrounding area. Again, strange men were loitering in the corners of the facility, and following whoever looked vulnerable. Harry grew concerned, and drew his attention forward. What was he doing at the bank? He should be at home, resting and spending quality time with his wife. But something strange was happening to Mr. Terwilliger; he seemed very distraught these last few days, after the unexpected death in the family. Harry was mad at the world and mad at himself for no apparent reason; and boy, was he ashamed of it. Earlier that morning, Harry gathered his bottled emotions into one and used all of the juice against his wife; scaring the shit out of her. He never treated his wife with disrespect, so why now? She was Cassandra's mother; and a mother losing her child can be just as painful, maybe even more.

This was Harry's fifth time visiting the bank, and they were starting to call him by name; it was rather scary. Because of these past occurring events, Harry's anxiety reached above its limit. He was angry, and desperately needing to close his accounts. The guard knew that he was in debt, but he prayed to the lord almighty that his hunch wasn't true. No matter what alternative Harry used, the bank knew how to suck him dry.

"Next!" A voice yelled. It was the teller he had met on his first meeting, and the fourth. She was friendly at first, but in the end, hopeless. Harry crawled to the teller, and looked up with fire in his eyes, he knew it; this was the day that things would change. That the accounts would close, and that he could start anew, start fresh. Then he could deal with other matters; such as his daughter's funeral. "How can I help you Mr. Terwilliger?"

"Oh, uh…" Harry started quietly. "I need to close my accounts. I need to do it now."

The teller scoffed, "Sir, I do not know how many times I need to tell you, no."

Harry slammed his hands against the table. "What if I give you money, huh? Will that satisfy you?"

The woman shook her head. "It is a hundred dollar closing fee."

Harry was aghast at the price range. "One hundred dollars…that half a year's paycheck and you expect me, to pay such a hefty price in order to close my accounts?"

The teller smiled; she should be ashamed. She was looking at a file in her hands. She glanced upwards, looking at Harry, quiet as a mouse. "Do you have any idea how much money you owe? Yes, Mr. Terwilliger, I know that you've been doing some home banking, but I assure you that it is a big mistake. The money is safe here."

Harry glanced downwards, and shook his head nonstop. "No, I don't know how much I owe, but let me tell you. I have bills to pay, and my salary keeps disappearing because I got to pay those bills and a grotesque fee, so that I can keep my money safe in this bank. Well, if it is safe here, then where is my money?" Harry was fed up, fed up with everything. He shot his head upwards, and locked his eyes with the teller. He bore a neutral expression, but he spoke with authority. "Now, I know you are going to say that everyone is going through the same thing, and that I should manage my money better. Yes, everybody is going through the same thing, that is true, but to tell me to manage my money when you guys keep draining it from my account. Two weeks ago, two hundred dollars from my retirement savings fund disappeared. And I know that I'm in the negatives, because I have no choice, but to keep borrowing!"

It's because of the crash," the woman attempted to speak, but Harry refused to let her open her mouth.

"Let me finish!" he whispered, "You listen to me ma'am. Close those accounts now…close them now, or I'll do something that I'll probably regret for the rest of my life."

The teller gasped. "And what may that be?"

There was a click. The teller closed her eyes for a quick moment before gazing them upon Harry's chest area. He was holding a revolver. She bore a look of quick surprise, and then fear. Harry nodded as he scanned the terrified look upon her face. "Now, close those accounts or I'll kill you. Do it quietly, and if you yell, scream, whisper, or tell anybody that I'm holding you at gunpoint, I'll kill you. And I'm not dumb, I'll know, got it?"

The teller bit her lip, and quivered. She looked as if she was on the verge of tears. "Tell me what you need?"

"First question, how much do I owe?" Harry started.

"You owe thirty four dollars, and fifty cents." The teller replied frantically.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Here, I have thirty dollars." Harry placed a hand inside his pant pocket, and pulled out forty dollars of change. He placed the money on the table. "Alright, see this? Here's thirty dollars to get me out of debt, and here's ten dollars, to shut up. I don't want the police getting involved, because well, things could get a little complicated."

The woman didn't hesitate to take the ten dollars, and place it into the pocket of her shirt. She then counted the thirty dollars, and placed it to the side, "Anything else, Mr. Terwilliger?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, those accounts. I want them closed. Now, I'm a good man, so I'll pay for the closing fee. I'll pay five dollars."

The teller took a deep breath. She did as she was told, because she was a good girl. After closing the account, she took a stamp and placed it along his file. She quickly took out a drawer of currency, and counted it along the table. "Here's the rest of your retirement savings; two hundred dollars. The rest is at home I assume, and you had another savings account with another one hundred dollars, are we good?"

"You are a sweetheart, thanks." Harry placed the five dollars on the table in front of him, and traded it for the currency of his own. It was finished, the stress, and the accounts were finally closed. "And please, whatever you do Miss, I'm a father who has just lost his daughter, jail is the last thing my family needs." And Harry exited the bank, through the side door, hoping to avoid the creeps loitering in the corners. Harry speed walked to his car, which was conveniently hiding in the shadows of the alley way. Harry sat inside the car, and placed his keys into the ignition. Afterwards, he sat for a moment, thinking about his actions. Would he have shot the girl if she refused to acknowledge his requests? What has become of him? Harry looked down at the money strangled within his hands. Money wouldn't solve anything. Money couldn't take back the fear he forced into someone, couldn't bring back his daughter, and it wouldn't take back the disgusting hand that he placed on his wife's cheek. Harry looked through the window, and sighed. Harry blinked, a lone tear strolling down his cheek.

Harry crept through the alley, and merged in with the traffic. It was pouring in the city, and most likely on the farm; what a mess the rain would make.

Harry sat upon the couch in his living room. His wife was sitting on the porch, listening to the thunderstorm. Harry stared at pictures of his children, of his family. It was amazing how the death of a loved one could make your whole world turn in a different direction. He looked at the opened door, staring at his wife in the rocking chair. She was so calm and collective, whereas Harry was sensitive at times; he was truly jealous. He rose to his feet, and casually walked into the porch. He stopped beside his wife, and kneeled to her level. He grasped her hands. As he looked upon her face, he could see the pain that she was enduring.

"Mary," Harry was lost for words.

"Yes, Harry," Mary urged her husband to continue.

"I, I don't deserve you. And I never have." Harry stopped, and bit his lip, but he continued. "I want to say that I am truly sorry for what I did to you the other day. I've been married for over twenty five years, maybe thirty; and I've never laid a hand on you. So why now?" Harry placed a hand on her cheek, and placed a kiss upon her moist lips. She kissed him back, accepting his apology.

Mary smiled. "I forgive you, Harry. And you do deserve me. If you truly didn't then I wouldn't have married the shy, quiet, humorous and honest man that I married long ago."

"Mary, I also must leave you for now. I have to go to the mile for a minute, and talk to Paul."

Mary understood, "What time will you be back?"

"I'm not sure." Harry responded. And with that, he placed another kiss upon his wife's lips, and left the porch. As he made his way past the kitchen, he grasped his coat hanging from his chair; in which the gun was still tucked inside. He whispered, "I'm sorry Mary, but I may never come home."

Chapter nine is next...