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"Do you regret it?"
"Do I regret one less white-collar trash on this earth?" You purse your lips mock-pensively at Tim Walters. "No, not really."
"One?" You can see the journalist physically refrain himself from scoffing. So much for a non-judgmental reporter's objectivity.
I must look like a modern-day Elizabeth Taylor, you think, all glammed up (by a make-up artist no-less), classic black gloves caressing your dainty fingers as you tried not to toy with the ringlets of your hair and a 24/7 security team standing behind you. That is, if Liz Taylor sported an orange prison jumpsuit, a pair of luxurious handcuffs and a broken lip.
"What about Steve Rogers?" You clear your throat as you try to nonchalantly reach for a cigarette. Ha, but you don't even smoke.
"What about Rogers?" You ask, silently willing your fingers to stop trembling. "Got a light?"
Tim nods.
Of course, his name would come up. You've clearly made more than a few stupid mistakes but you aren't an idiot. So how come you still feel like one, staring as Tim, the judge-y New York Times reporter, awkwardly slides you a box of matches?
"Well, you did-"
"Time's up." You can almost scream in relief. Saved by the bell!
The two simple words always passively acknowledged - at the end of villainous speeches in secret lairs, 5th-grade History exams, and maybe (read: perhaps soon- definitely, sooner than you'd like anyway) on your way to the electric chair someday - you never thought could bring you salvation.
Tim opens his mouth in protest. "But-"
"Time's up," the warden repeats pointedly from behind you.
"Well," You say, unapologetically sucking the cigarette. "Sorry." The smoke breezes out your lips.
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