The remains

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The guard sergeant stands at the base of a four-tiered iron cell block, the angelic orange-red rays of the early morning sun shining down upon him through the top tier chicken-wire windows.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouts, “Joseph! William! Whalen!”

Inside a dark cell, inmate Whalen inhales his final wormy breath inside D-Block. He stands before the vertical bars. So close, the hooked nose on his hairless face and head is nearly pressed against the iron.

“Cry, cry, cry,” he chants quietly to himself. “Cry, cry, cry you naughty kittens.”

An abrupt electric alarm sounds. Metal slams against metal. The noise echoes throughout the concrete and steel prison block. But no one-not inmate or screw-notices it. When the barred door crashes open, the shock reverberates inside Whalen’s chest. It is the sound of freedom.

“Step forward,” shouts the guard sergeant.

There to greet him are two uniformed correction officers. They will escort him along the gangway, down the four tiers to the first floor.

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