The heavy metal door creaked on its hinges as the guard unlocked, jolting me in my seat. My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped out of the small, cramped cell that had been my home for far too long. The cold linoleum floor felt all too familiar beneath my feet after years of pacing its confines.
"McKim, your parole papers are ready. Follow me," the guard barked, his voice cold as ever. I nodded silently, the taste of impending freedom stinging my tongue. The journey down the dull prison halls seemed endless, each step echoing the same way they did years ago when I first entered.
As we approached the processing area, I caught a whiff of an old air freshener. Behind a glass barrier was a table cluttered with paperwork and forms, which stood close to the window. A stern-faced woman impassively glanced up from her desk with a bored expression, her disinterest evident. She motioned for me to sit down, and I obliged, the creak of the plastic chair an uncomfortable reminder of my confinement.
"Name?" she droned, the sound of tapping keys audible from my position.
"Jamie Morrigan McKim," I replied.
"Date of birth?"
"12/11, 459"
As she typed, the printer beside her hummed to life, spitting out a series of papers. She handed me the papers through the slit. I took the pen holstered next to me and signed my name on document after document, the ballpen audibly grinding against the paper's surface.
"Just a reminder of your parole conditions: report to your parole officer monthly, maintain employment, and stay out of trouble. Any violation will land you back in here," she recited as I nodded along, well aware of the conditions, simply just wanting to get out of her.
With the final signature, she slid the stack of papers into a plain binder and handed it to me. "You're free to go, Mr. McKim."
The guard escorted me to the exit, the jangle of keys echoing through the corridor. As the heavy doors swung open, blinding sunlight poured in, momentarily blurring my vision. The sounds of the outside world—the sound of distant rainfall, the howling wind— a symphony I had not heard in years.
The prison gates creaked open, and I stepped into the blinding sunlight, my eyes squinting against the brightness. A blast of hot air and the rays of the scorching sun awakened me to my realized freedom. Parole papers in hand, I walked forward, seeing the prison's imposing figure get smaller and smaller, the thought of being behind those bars going back further and further in my mind.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The asphalt of the parking lot burned beneath my worn-out shoes. I groaned in constant displeasure, which did not last long upon seeing my good friend, Dave, leaning against a banger of a car, the flicker of a cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes met mine as I approached, and a grin grew on his face.
"Jamie, mate! Welcome back to the real world," Dave said, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot and pulling me into a tight embrace. It felt good being in the open and friendly arms of a friend after so long.
"Thanks, Dave. Feels strange, you know? Like I've been asleep for years," I replied, still gripping the binder of parole papers as if my life depended on it.
As we settled into the car, the familiar scent of worn upholstery surrounded me. Dave, always the talkative one, wasted no time getting down to business. "So, I'll just keep you up to speed as quickly as possible. You got some good news and some not-so-good news, mate."
I raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Lay it on me."
Dave chuckled, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "Good news first... Your old firm threw you a parting gift. A whopping 20,000 quid, mate."
My eyes widened in surprise. "Twenty grand? What's the catch?"
"No catch, apparently. I went ahead and cashed it in for you, so you've got a good start in rebuilding your life."
A mixture of gratitude and skepticism tugged at the corners of my lips, but the foreboding nature of the bad news still hung on my mind. "Well, that's unexpected. And the bad news?"
Dave's expression shifted, his eyes casting a shadow over his usual jovial demeanor. "Now, about the not-so-good news. You wouldn't happen to have had a fling or two while you were still out and about?"
"...I may have. What of it?" I raised an eyebrow, feeling a chill run down my spine.
Dave sighed, choosing his words carefully.
"Did you have one with a woman named Rhonda?"
My eyes widened at the name, and he read my expression as smoothly as ever.
"She passed away, Jamie. And she left a daughter, your daughter, as it turns out. The kid's been in the care of social workers since her mum kicked the bucket."
I felt a whirlwind of emotions—grief, disbelief, and a pang of guilt for not knowing about my own child. "Wait, a daughter? Why wasn't I informed earlier?"
"She just died recently, last week in fact. Seems she kept it under wraps for a while. But here's the kicker—the social workers are pushing hard for you to take custody. I've never seen them so insistent, mate. Something's off."
The car took off from the parking lot and into the busy freeway, the weight of the news settling in as we drove down the road. My mind raced with questions, and the road ahead suddenly seemed more convoluted than ever. The 20,000 quid in my account felt like both a lifeline and a burden as I grappled with the complexities of a newfound fatherhood thrust upon me in the wake of tragedy.
"...So, what do you want to do now?" Dave asked.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Anna ." He responded. "I only know because you've been getting mail nonstop, had to rip open a few letters to get the full picture so I hope you don't mind."
I shook my head, dismissing his concerns. "And where is she right now?"
"The sender was the Metropolitan Children's Borough."
"...Take me there."