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July 28, 2009 Taking a page from Brian Barbeito, I decided to submit a short story titled True Justice. However, my piece is in four parts. It is a horror story from an anthology I am working on titled, Strange Pictures. I hope you enjoy it... True Justice--Part 1 of 4 George Fellows wakened and found himself naked and tethered. At that moment each of his senses heightened, so much so, he could smell the fear emanating from his pores. Every inch of his body throbbed and he was certain that the heat in the room would bring about a slow death. He remembered stories his uncle told him about the jungles of Vietnam , and how the humidity clung to his pink skin like it was part of his physiology. George felt the same way, only he wasn’t in the jungles of southeast Asia. The heat stole his breath and the mucous membrane in his throat felt ulcerated and like a fire was dying in his esophagus. His lips were dry, he found it hard to swallow, and he could hardly tolerate the bitter taste in his mouth. Rivulets of sweat trickled through the furrows in his rib cage and his hair was matted against his shoulders and chest. Even in his emaciated state he knew it was fruitless to try and slip from the binds that held his legs and wrists. He could hear a rat scurrying about beneath the table where he lay bound. It was then that he realized where he was, but could not recall how he got there or how long he’d been confined. The room was heavy with the scent of his perspiration and pungent with the eye-stinging presence of ammonia. George gasped, and then fought for and won his next breath, as his heartbeat plodded along erratically. Stiffness in his joints made it difficult for him to turn his head, and everything above him and to the left and right of him had yet to come into focus. What he found most frightening, was not the possibility of impending death, but the darkness that made him shiver as it crept over his flesh like marching ants. After several minutes he could make out silhouettes, two men standing nearby, neither speaking. “Who…who is…” George’s voice tailed off. “Take it easy, Fellows.” George recognized the voice and tried to raise his head so he could make sure it was indeed, Warden Frederick Mann. That slight movement sent a streak of fire running up his spine to the base of his skull and his head plopped back down onto the marble slab where he lay. “W-w-warden Mann?” “Fellows, give yourself a few minutes and everything will be fine.” There was a pause and George could hear the Warden’s movements. One footstep and then the other foot slid, making a grating sound on the concrete floor, until the man stood over him. The Warden tapped George’s hand reassuringly. “I’m here with Doctor Sharkey. In a minute, we will raise the table, so that you can see who else is here.” “What am...I…doing here?” The warden said nothing. He raised the upper half of the table just slightly, then using a sponge-like swab, squeezed drops of water onto George’s cracked lips and onto his tongue. Seconds later the fire in George’s throat went out, but when he tried to speak, his voice was still raspy. His vision cleared and he could make out the warden’s heavily pock marked face. “Why am I here…and not in my cell?” “Don’t worry. You’ll be back to serving out your thirteen year sentence under normal conditions faster than you can say ‘true justice.’” “Did I…have an accident?” “Nothing about your being here is accidental. Everything you have experienced during the past three years was designed to get us to this point.” Mann manipulated the remote on the side of the table and it tilted forward so that George could get a clearer view of where he was. The move upward, though but a ten seconds, sent a wave of nausea through him. Afterward, George blinked and took several deep breaths. When the storm in his innards settled, George began to regain some of his vision. Behind the Warden and Dr. Sharkey was a half-dozen men in scrubs, but he could not tell what they were doing. George narrowed his eyes and he saw that their clothing was heavily stained. He looked on in silence as the men went about their business wordlessly and methodically. “What are those men over there doing?” Before either Mann or Sharkey could reply, George asked, “How long have I been here!” “Twelve days,” Sharkey said. “Am I in trouble? Was…was I written up for something?” “You were sentenced to thirteen years, and—” “Mister Mann, please,” George whimpered. “I know what my sentence is. All I want to know is what I’ve done and when you’ll turn me loose.” “We are going to turn you loose soon enough,” said Warden Mann. “But we must finish what we started.” “What do you mean?” “George Leonard Fellows, you have been sentenced by the State of California to—” “Warden…” George swallowed and took his first unobstructed lungful of air. His voice was weak. “I have re-lived my crimes and sentence more times than I…can count. I am not proud of what…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What I did.” “What did you do?” Dr. Sharkey asked. “Tell him!” The Warden’s words caused George to flinch. George sighed and as the breath left his lungs, it felt as if another would not be there to replace it. He forced himself to cough and again, he was able to inhale. “I’m here for rape…raping a woman.” “And holding her captive for two days,” Warden Mann iterjected. “I was out of my head on drugs.” George shook his head and moaned. “That is irrelevant,” Warden Mann insisted. “Now let me get back to what I was saying. I am not speaking to you as a represent of the State Department of Corrections, but as the voice of your victim.” He bent over so that his mouth was next to George’s ear. “Minnie Rose Denton. You remember her, don’t you Fellows?” George turned his head and closed his eyes, as if the Warden’s mere mentioning of her name had the power to make the woman appear, and with the same hatred and fierceness in her eyes that she showed at his trial. “According to the victim’s testimony, you raped her repeatedly.” Warden Mann fell silent and let his words sink in. “You ruined her physically, but most of all, you damaged her psychologically.” “If I could make it up to her…” Both the Warden and Doctor Sharkey laughed. There was a third voice among the triumvirate of chucklers. George recognized him as Bruno Eaton, one of the guards on his cell block. George disliked the man because he stood but five and a half feet tall, but used his nightstick on the inmates as a means of compensating for his lack of height. He was mean and the others often made fun of him because his breath always reeked of sardines and tobacco, and they dubbed him “Smokey the Fish.” George remembered Eaton telling him that during his youth he entertained dreams of becoming the next Rocky Marciano. He recalled Eaton telling him, “I was short, but bulldog tough. My dream was dashed by a string of bigger and better trained men. City boys who could afford better teachers and equipment.” The story didn’t ring true to George’s ears, and he recalled telling Eaton, “Now all you have left is that pug nose and ill disposition.” After the laughter of those standing nearby, including some of his fellow guards, Eaton swore he would get him. Now he’s going to get his chance, George thought. Warden Mann’s words interrupted George’s thoughts. “You can never atone for what you did to Missus Denton. After you finished with here, she could no longer be intimate with her husband. He grew weary and left her with a learning disabled son. The boy was later taken away from her by the Children’s Protective Services.” Warden Mann looked down on George with contempt. “In essence, you destroyed three lives.” “Why are you telling me this?” “Here at Mount Granite Penal Colony, we believe in true justice.” “Save it for your memoirs!” George snapped. “Tell me what’s going on and unshackle me!” The shouting left George feeling weak and dizzy. The pain radiating through his limbs and torso increased. “Doc…” “You will be given drugs for your pain, all in due time,” Doctor Sharkey said. “Stop playing games with me,” George pleaded, and as he fought back tears he was reminded of the similar cries of his victim. He writhed for several seconds and managed to fight off the pain radiating in his joints. “Please, tell me what’s going on.” This time the Warden spoke. “Fellows, have you ever wondered why the State filed a court order banning you from cutting your hair?” “A means of you sick bastards taking total control over me.” The Warden managed a faint smile. “Have you asked yourself why we would have you take your meals separately from the other inmates, and why we gave you just enough food to keep you alive? Did you ever wonder why we only supplied you with what we claimed were vitamins and yet offered them to no one else?” “That’s torture!” George declared, pushing the words from between his dry lips. “I want to speak with my lawyer!” “That’s going to be a bit difficult,” the Warden said. “Your lawyer is dead.” “Liar!” “Christopher Paisley, the lawyer of record in the People of the State of California versus George Raynard Fellows, was run off the road last night. Of course, it was made to look as if he swerved to dodge something in the road. Trust me, he is very much dead. We made sure of it.” ------------ About the author: Timothy N. Stelly is a poet, essayist, novelist and screenwriter from northern California. His novel, HUMAN TRIAL, is the first part of a sci-fi trilogy and is available from Amazon.com, allthingsthatmatterpress.com and in e-book format at mobipocket.com. website: http://stellbreadO@tripod.com Email: stellbread@yahoo.com 
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