Fighting Animals

Ch. 7: Let Them Tire Themselves Out

     Conner looked down the hall for the one-hundredth time, wondering why hospital air smelled of insanity. 

     His stomach longed to be cradled and cooed. The last time he felt dread this intense was in grade school, outside the principal's office, but this time, the consequences would be dire.

     He didn't change out of his sweaty basketball shorts and hoodie, having expected his near-nervous breakdown would keep him warm, but instead, his body's desire to enter the fetal position and his attempts against it made him tremble, and the arctic hospital chill didn't help.

     Any minute, they'd show up, in their navy blue uniforms, he would refuse to talk without an attorney, some fresh-out-of-law-school toddler who couldn't grow a full beard, the judge would throw the book at him, and his life would end while he was still alive. The clothes on his back would be what he would get back after decades of wearing an orange jumpsuit.

     He rubbed his eyes and rested his back on the beige wall. I've done it this time.

     Knowlton may have been a cruel ruffian, but who was Conner to play judge, jury and executioner? If Knowlton died, was it slow and painful, and if so, was that fair? Who would have Conner's back once this was over?