If Only We'd Known

The guard escorting him stopped Ian short of a heavy metal door. It had a wired embedded glass window cut into it. Another guard unlocked the door, and upon entering sat Ian down on a metal chair firmly secured to the floor. One guard watched over the other guard as he latched Ian's metal restrains to the metal rings set into the stainless steel table and into the concrete floor. Visually checking his handy work, the one guard tested each ring by giving it a strong tug, satisfied both guards then left the room, leaving Ian alone.

Neither guard had said anything, and nor had Ian.

Ian had quickly learned that communicating with guards, other than for basic needs, was a bad idea. The guards were wont to ignore a inmate as to beat one senseless when provoked. Most things provoked the guards. Then there were his fellow inmates, where trust was a difficult thing to come by, yet, very easily lost. Talking to the guards, that is, if those uniformed tin gods even deigned to speak with a lowly inmate, could easily be perceived, by other inmates, as being a stool pigeon. Or, rat, snitch, snout, tell-tale, fink or weasel. Regardless of what a inmate was called, he would never be trusted again, and worst, no one would buddy up to you. No one would be there to have your back, since it would be in every inmate's best interest if you were put out of their misery.

Ian had learned, adapted, and yes, even excelled, in the ways of surviving jail life.

Now, he might not have to endure that life much longer. So, with some anticipation, and a sliver of hope, he waited on his attorney.

After an indeterminate amount of time -since waiting by yourself in silence, with nothing but your own thoughts to pass the time, has no outside reference, it tends to distort the passage of time -the large metal door on the opposite side of the room was opened.

A guard walked through, and placed himself just to the side of the door. On Ian's side, he heard the door behind him open and slam shut. A glance behind him shown that a guard had entered and placed himself in the same manner as the other guard in front of him.

This was different.

Ian had met with his attorneys thrice before, and after securing his restraints the guards had left, to give him the privacy he needed to speak with his attorneys.

So, it wasn't his attorneys that had come to see him. This new situation filled Ian with a detached curiosity, one that, for today, broke up some of the day to day monotony of his incarceration.

Wilson heard a distant door clang shut with a metallic ring. Then, the door directly in front of him opened up and his visitor stepped into the room.

Malcolm Harris.

Wilson thought he should have guessed the identity of his mystery visitor, but he was too caught up in his own problems to fully focus, so he'd simply assumed. Yet, it was inevitable that the cuckold would eventually show up.

A malicious smile crossed Ian's face. "Well, if it isn't Jessica's cuckold of a husband, Malcolm Harris." He spoke especially loud for the benefit of the guards in the room and whomever else was listening in.

However, instead of reacting to the taunt, Harris walked towards the table, sat down and stared at Ian. His eyes were like shining marbles of brown, glistening in the fluorescent light. For some reason Harris' eyes reminded Wilson of a snake's eyes; cold, distant, and reptilian.

There was no emotion showing on Malcolm Harris' face. It was if his features were carved of a stone hard material.

Ian Wilson knew what Harris was up to, he'd often used it in meetings with clients. It was a psychological move designed to put another at a mental and emotional disadvantage. The first to blink, lost. That is, the first to cave from the tension had a disadvantage from that point on.

Ian Wilson was a master at the game and could out wait the best, and had. What could some bumpkin from the outskirts do, on someone as well versed and heavily experienced as he was. Nothing!

Harris was so still, not a movement showed, that Ian wondered if the man, sitting across from him, was even breathing.

It was a minute later, during a mental interlude, that Wilson felt it, the malice, the ice cold emotionless, even the frosty stare that seemed to reach out and take a hold of his soul.

"What the fuck have you come for? Didn't the death of your whore tell you anything? Well, cuckold. Speak up!"

Only the echoing silence that followed Wilson's rant, answered him.

A moment later, and Ian had to fill the quiet. "Say something, motherfucker! What did you come for? Wanted to see the better man? Is that it?"

And still Harris was a immovable statue. Then, Wilson began to cuss him, calling him names, accusing him of being a spineless know-nothing wimp, and other derogatory things. Finishing his rant, somewhat pleased with himself, he looked to the guards to see their reaction. Thinking that they'd at least have some reaction, he was rudely surprised when he saw both guards staring straight ahead, their faces as expressionless as Harris'. Two more statues. Deaf statues.

A few more minutes of the same, with Wilson ranting, Harris sitting unaffected, with no action by the guards, had Ian feeling as if he were in the Twilight Zone.

"Guard! I want to go back to my cell." shouted Wilson, to the guard standing behind him.

Wilson waited a few seconds, but nothing happened, The guard didn't move. No door opened.

"GUARDS! GET ME OUT OF HERE!" screamed Wilson, in near hysteria. "I want to go to my cell."

Still, nothing.

Ian was about to scream vulgarities at both guards, when he heard, "Why?"

The question was asked in a rumbling voice. A voice lacking any human emotion, however. As if a computer were posing the question.

Ian snapped his head around to face Harris. "What did you say?"

Malcolm sat with a outwardly steady aplomb, though, inside, deep within, he felt the serpent of vengeance, coil and uncoil. It was ready to strike. To take this piece of filth and choke the life out of him. To see the light fade from his eyes, to watch as his wretched face became slack, as death settled in.

Instead, Malcolm waited. He knew Wilson had heard the question.

"Why what? Why your whore belonged to me? Why your bastards are actually my kids?" asked Wilson, with a sneer.

"Yes."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to argue with me on the terminology?" Surprise evident in his voice.

"No."

Ian laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. "How accepting of you. Cucky wimp."

When Malcolm failed to respond, Wilson decided to hit him with the truth and nothing but the truth. It would serve to finish what Ian started so long ago.

"I'll tell you. See. I was a young man back then, and I was just starting my sophomore year at Ridgemont University. I'd gotten there through a football scholarship. I had it made. I was going to college, I was playing what I loved, and I was single and free. With me so far, cuck?"

Ian looked into Malcolm's eyes, and saw nothing more than his own reflection. But, the cuck was listening! Good.

"One day, a warm summer day, a friend and I were walking through some park nearby the school, when we see this girl running. She was one fucking hot bitch. So, naturally, we wanted to get to know her better. We tried to talking to her, but the bitch laughed at us and ran past. I didn't like being laughed at. Still don't. So my friend and I ran after her. We were just going to have a little fun with her, maybe teach her to be nicer. We were in the middle of that when you fucking showed up. You tackled us! Remember, motherfucker?"

Malcolm had all but forgotten that incident, despite it being the way he had met Jessica. He just never dwelt on the memory. And, it was so long ago. Could it be possible?

"Yes."

"Well, I'm glad you do, cuck. Because, I've never been able to forget it. You motherfucker broke my ankle and tore my ligaments. It killed my chances to play football. I was even going to go pro! Then they took my scholarship away. I couldn't even go back to school! But, see, I didn't know any of that, I was in the hospital for weeks, in a cast with pins in my foot and ankle. I expected the cops to come looking for me. Everyting that damn hospital room door, I thought it was the cops coming for me. But, when they didn't, I figured you all didn't report the little incident. I had told my folks that I injured myself while I was running. Anyway, when I was released, my parents told me the news."

"They'd held back that little tidbit about the school until I was well enough to go home. The ankle healed but my foot was never the same, and I've walked with a limp since. I vowed revenge on you and her. I didn't know the name of the girl, or the boy who had rescued her, but I persevered. The girl, it was easy enough to ask people about the girl who ran through the park. It wasn't until your nuptials were announced that I was able to close in on you. I still didn't know it was you. But, I got lucky eventually and discovered how you and the cock slut met. And...Vola! I had you."

"Then opportunity came knocking. It was some family gathering. I had a friend, who was related to the Robertson's, arrange for him and I to attend. All I wanted to do was to get what was mine. What I'd been denied for so long. So all I was going to do was fuck the bitch and be done with her. Then you could have that cheating ass pussy. Then you showed up. You nearly drowned me! So, yeah, you made it personal."

"And- Well, the rest you know."

Malcolm sat there, surprised by what he'd just heard from Ian Wilson. It was so weird. How could anyone hold a grudge for so long? Everything that had happened was because he wanted to fuck Jessica all those years ago? This guy was nuts! Insane! He'd better end this before he did something that he'd regret.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Malcolm slowly stood. Ian's eyes followed him as Harris rose from the table.

"I'm almost done here. Then I'll leave you to whatever awaits you in there. " said Malcolm calmly, pointing in the general direction of the main jail. "Your story doesn't quite end there, Wilson. Does it? You didn't get to play football, but you did okay for yourself since then. You managed to turn a few dollars and some junk into a successful enterprise, through hard work and some daring. Your net worth is somewhere around thirty million. Yes, you're very resourceful and persevering. You should be commended."

Malcolm could easily see that his compliments were puffing up the little piece of shit. Then, Harris' finally broke into a toothy smile, although the expression was better suited on a piranha.

"Well, Ian Wilson, I'm glad you did so well for yourself, because I'm going to take every last bit of it from you. Yup! I am! Then, I'm going to portion it out among several charities. Imagine that, all that hard work- A man's life's work. Gone! Poof! Just like that. But, the best part, at least for you, is you don't have to die to leave it to charity."

In an instant, a inarticulate rage filled Ian, and he started shouting. "YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU AREN'T GOING TO GET SHIT! YOU CAN'T TOUCH IT! MY LAWYERS WILL FIGHT YOU ALL THE WAY!"

"Oh, I didn't say it would be easy. I'm sure it won't be, but I will win... Eventually." said Malcolm with the same smile still on his face. "Wilson, you should have never tried to rape Jessica. If you hadn't, you'd have been that famous football player we'd all be talking about. You would have been able to complete your schooling, and who knows, after retiring from football, maybe gotten yourself a used car lot."

Dropping the smile, Malcolm face returned to its neutral expression, although his eyes grew harder than before. "You tried to kill Jackson, and nearly succeeded. You used Jessica, then you shot and killed her. Truth be told, if you should miss out on the death penalty, and somehow get paroled before you die in prison, rest assured, once past those prison gates, you won't have time to draw that first breath of freedom before you die." Malcolm said it calmly, but Ian knew that Harris meant every word he uttered.

Ian Wilson being who he was, wasn't about to show any fear to Harris. Instead, he glared at Malcolm, and if eyes had been daggers, Malcolm would've been stabbed a thousand times.

"One final thing." said Malcolm, "Here. This is for you." He'd pulled out a sealed envelope and tossed it on the table. "Some late night reading."

Malcolm turned and walked to the door, which the guard had already opened, and walked through, leaving Ian alone with the other guard.

Ian turned toward the guard and asked him, "Sir, can I open the envelope?" Feeling the hatred for where he was, for those who told him what he could and couldn't do and ultimately, for the humiliation he felt, in asking for permission to read its contents.

The guard looked at Ian as if he were a piece of shit stuck on his boot. "Yes. You got five minutes, then I'm taking you back to your cell!"

Slowly he reached for the blank envelope and with some difficulty -courtesy of his chained wrists- he managed to get it open without mangling the envelope to badly.

At first Ian didn't understand what he was reading, then, with the utmost clarity, it struck him. He let out a low moan, which grew in intensity and volume. "NooooOOOOOO!"

"COME BACK HERE, CUCK! IT'S A LIE! A LIE!"

He felt his head grabbed and forced down to the table. "Calm down! If you don't you're going to get a nice little zap from my taser." promised the guard. "You hear me!"

"Yeah. Yeah. I hear you!" panted Ian, trying to calm down. But, as he lay there with his face pressed against the cold metal, something died in Ian Wilson. He could feel it swiftly leaving until it popped out of existence. Leaving nothing but a void where his will used to be. Where his life had once resided was naught but a smoking hole. Even a sense of hope seemed to be elusive.

Another guard appeared and helped to unshackle Ian. As he was lead from the room, he stumbled -like an old man, or a broken one. The guard who had been in the room during Malcolm's visit, picked up the envelope and the papers that were left on the table. He quickly scanned them.

"Hey, hold up! This is yours. It's some DNA test results. Don't you want it?" asked the guard.

Ian bleakly looked at the guard, and replied, in a weak voice, soaked in defeat, "No. I don't!"

"Aren't you the father?"

"That's just the point. I'm not!" whispered Ian, his voice barren of any life, as the metal door closed behind him, with a final clash of metal.

~The End... For Now~

If you enjoyed this little tale, I've another story in the works that will conclude the saga of Malcolm Harris.