Prison life...
Azul’s skin crawled from the scent of despair he sensed around him. Men without hope of ever getting out surrounded him. Their posture, the way they ate, everything about them said they’d given up on life. He picked up a few items off the cleaning supply shelf to follow the warden down the hall, the head wardens lounge. The walls—thick and oppressive—a cement blanket.
Halls echoed of squeaky mattresses, toilets flushing, low grunts: men exercising, pushups to work off aggression. Sounds he would not miss, nor wanted to hear again. Titanium handcuffs, the regurgitating scent of bleach, and he knew this place needed to become a part of his past, not his present.
Cora Blu
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