[center][h2][I]1.[/I][/h2][/center][hr][center][h3][I]Three Days[/I][/h3][/center][hr][hr]

The morning ritual he had chosen was a complete, and utter, contradiction.

He pushed his body up, came back down, and pushed up again at a deliberately controlled speed, the strain and pull of muscle and connective tissue heating up with every successful repetition. His previously trained muscle memory would dictate that crunches came after the push ups and then flutter kicks and then high knees and then mountain climbers. And he would always end with shadow boxing. It was a ritual he, himself, had chosen after finally arriving at the place he had been stationed for the last two years. The acts were definitive proof of a will to get stronger or keep in shape and those roads led to a confirmed zest for life. And everyday he did it, it remained a contradiction. One look in his coffee-colored eyes and it was obvious that the will to live had faded a long time ago. A knock on the heavy metal door interrupted the man as he punched at the air and a slot slid open a second after. 

"Chow time, Corrigan. Get your ass in gear. Not much longer now, but the council says we still gotta feed you," an irritated male voice ordered. 

The man exhaled and spied around his small box of a room until he spotted his shirt. It was bright orange. Seemingly to match the equally bright orange pants that hung loosely on his waist and legs. He grabbed the garment and hastily threw it on over his bare torso. It was also loose, but then again, this was not the kind of place where a resident could expect a perfectly fitting uniform. He turned and slowly dragged his feet over to the door as locks clicked and a loud buzzer sounded and it was pushed open. The light that poured in invaded the man's gaze and he squinted and threw a hand up as he was met with the warden and two other guards. The guards were carrying the same rifles they always carried--M-4 carbines, set to full auto and ready to shred any person fool enough to try and run. The warden was also carrying his patented steel baton even though all three of them knew their prisoner would never put up any resistance. Those days were long gone. 

"You look at those rifles every time we come to get you, Corrigan. Must be what you used, right? Grant fuckin' Corrigan. You won't be such hot shit soon. In fact, you'll be pretty damn cold if science has anything to say about it," the warden joked as Grant exited his cell and let the guards shackle his ankles and wrists. The guards snickered, but Grant's expression never changed. His stare was always blank. And his eyes only ever looked forward once he was out of the cell. There was no reason he needed to look elsewhere anyway. 

"Move!" A guard barked, using the barrel of his carbine to jab Grant in the lower back. Grant made no audible noises and had no visible reaction other than stumbling forward a bit. He began his slow shuffle down the hallway which was only lit with dim, rectangular lights on the walls on each side and beside each cell door. He shuffled past heavy metal doors with slots similar to his own and ignored a variety of sounds coming from behind each. He could hear screams and pleads, thuds and cries, and sobs. "Jesus. These guys have the audacity to cry now. It's amazin' that it takes death row to give you sons of bitches some humanity, huh?!" The same guard shouted, giving Grant another jab in the lower back. Once again, Grant's demeanor did not change.

The group soon emerged from the hallway and made their way to the cafeteria. It was large and looked generally the same as most other prison dining halls. There were long tables with bench seats that were just as long, guards posted on all the walls and a two window set-up with two large square openings in one wall where prisoners stood in line to grab plastic sectional plates and utensils from a cart and get their food served to them--by other prisoners working the kitchens, of course. Grant and his envoy got special treatment, however. He shuffled over to the cart and grabbed his tray and utensils with shackled wrists and then made his way over to receive his food. He would cut the line and then shuffle over to a table he always had to himself. No one was allowed to sit near the man with an armed escort. In a maximum security prison full of the most dangerous individuals, Grant Corrigan was the only inmate who ate his lunch with two armed guards. It was a sight to behold and it garnered glances and stares and whispers from everyone. Grant did not notice. 

He slowly, almost reluctantly, shoveled the food and only stared at the table the entire time. He remained lost in his thoughts and barely noticed the taste of the slop he had been given. The guards vigilantly watched the room to ensure that no one dared to approach while the warden stared at his charge with a deviant smirk. "Bet it's tasting a bit different now, right? Now that it's so close, I bet you're thinking it's better than you thought? Makes sense if you are. It's only natural you would suddenly appreciate shit when you're about to die. You're finished, put that shit down!" The warden abruptly pushed the tray down the table where it slid onto the floor with a moderately loud crash in a room that was quieter then usual. Everyone turned to see the spectacle, but Grant did not visibly change. He simply swung both legs over the bench, stood, and began his shuffle once more back to his cell. Some of the guards shook their heads and offered menacing glares as he passed them and though the armed escorts were saying something, all Grant focused on was what was in front of him. He took jabs to the back and whatever they were saying, but he always looked forward. 

It seemed like he was back in his cell in no time. The warden unshackled Grant before violently pushing him back into the small, boxy cell. It was dark with no windows and discolored walls. Just a mat that acted as a bed and even that was dingy and dirty. "Don't worry, Corrigan. It's almost over. Three more days and you won't ever have to worry about this shit again. You should be thankful. In these times, I've heard of guys who had to wait five or more years on death row before they could finally leave this world." The warden and the guards closed the door and their footsteps echoed off into the distance. Grant lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Three more days. After two years of plainly existing, there were only three more days. For the first time in a long time, he could feel a sense of happiness welling up within. It was finally becoming real. The agony would finally disappear and he could leave this world just as unceremoniously as he entered it. 

He crawled over to his mat and curled up on his side, his arm being used as a headrest. He closed his eyes and the sleep took over almost instantly. It seemed like he was always tired. Ever since he first arrived to the prison, fatigue had never been far behind any of his actions. The same was true of the dreams. They were never far behind. And as Grant drifted into an unconscious rest, they arrived just on time. Flashes of explosions and gun fire rang. The inhuman roar and wail of creatures his mind's eye couldn't properly remember cried out. Snippets of memories danced in and out. He could see the backs of military uniforms. He could see men screaming and running and others shouting to keep up the assault. He then saw his hands covered in blood. His own uniform, the strap of the rifle, and the carbine itself also caked in dirt and blood. He could see dead bodies and fires all around him. And he could see another silhouette of something large, charging right at him, barring fangs. He awoke with a start and quickly looked all around before realizing he was still in the safe haven of his cell. 

He did not have much time to gain his bearings before a knock came at the heavy metal door and the slot slid open. "Corrigan. Get your ass in gear. Looks like someone gives a shit about you after all. You got a visitor."

Grant sat up slowly and just stared for a moment. He was in disbelief. There was no way he could have a visitor. Family had abandoned him years ago and anyone he cared about before no longer cared about him after the sentencing. For the first time in a long time, another feeling began to well up inside. It was curiosity and it led to genuine confusion on Grant's part. He had been ready to accept his fate for two years now. Even longer if he were being honest. And now, three days before, someone came to see him. 

"Hurry the hell up, Corrigan, we haven't got all fucking day!" The warden shouted. 

Grant came to his feet and exited his cell, going through the process of being shackled and escorted again until this time he came to the visiting room. It was a small room with guards along the wall and a row of stools and glass separating prisoners from the people who came to see them. The guards were only about a foot and a half from prisoners. Grant was ushered to his seat and as he sat, he did not recognize the person in front of him. The man on the other side of the glass was much older with wrinkled, pale skin and a tuft of grey hair. He wore a fitting black suit with zero imperfections and a freshly steamed tie held down with a silver tie bar. His eyes were weary, yet focused and his visage denoted serious intent. Grant lifted the phone next to him to his ear and said nothing. The two stared at each other for a moment. 

The older man was the first one to break the silence. "You're Grant Corrigan. I have to admit, you're smaller than I thought you'd be." 

Grant said nothing. 

"I'll get straight to the point, sir. I represent an important family in this city. They have sent me here with an offer for you to consider." 

Grant said nothing. 

The man cleared his throat to endure the awkward silence. "What I'm saying sir... Is that you have a chance to gain your freedom. Leave these walls with me and come meet my proprietors. They will offer you their proposal in person." 

Grant's eyes did not change. But he cleared his throat and took a glance back at the guards and the warden. There was no way they could hear what the man on the other side of the glass was saying. Grant's gaze met the older man's once more, but his expression remained blank and lifeless. And just like his morning ritual, his response was completely contradictory. A complete, and utter, contradiction. 

"Let's go."