Madrugada

Survivor's Guilt

"James Callahan?"

As the sound of his name being called, James looked up from where his hands were sitting on his lap, fingers entangled and sweaty. "Sorry, yes," he laughed awkwardly, standing up. He wiped his hands on his pants, trying to be inconspicuous. "Can I see her now?"

In front of him was a stout, plump woman with dark skin. She was dressed in regular prison guard uniform. Her eyes were flicking from James to the clipboard in her hands, probably checking his ID with the person standing in from of her. "You here for Bailey O'Donnell?" she looked up at him, cracking her gum between her teeth.

"Yes."

"Can you tell me your birth date, please?"

James felt the eyes of all the other people in the waiting room on him as he bit his lip in anxiety. He looked warily to the gun strapped to the guard's belt and quickly gave her the information the she requested.

The woman nodded approvingly. "Just standard questions. Right this way, sir," she beckoned with her clipboard.

There isn't a need for her to address me like that, James thought with the slightest sting of guilt. Nevertheless he smiled and followed the woman as she led him through the heavy metal doors at the other side of the waiting room.

Soon the fear of waiting in that stupid room with its pristine glow and crappy magazine choices, alone and surrounded by strangers, had disappeared. It was quickly replaced with another question: What would Bailey say when she saw him?

James realized he was still chewing his lip in nervousness.

The guard and the man continued their journey through the prison. James noticed the other cells, empty, looking just like something out of the movies he used to watch as a child. Jail was portrayed exactly the same way; metal bars and cramped rooms.

He didn't realize his heart was pounding until the woman snapped her gum, pushing open another set of doors.

"Here you are, Mr. Callahan," she said, allowing him to pass through. "Miss O'Donnell will be with you in a minute."

James looked around the room. There were rows of white chairs in front of white tables. On the other side of the table, separated by a thick glass pane, was another chair. There were already people in the space besides James and the guard. One woman, on the same side of the room as James, was using some sort of phone attached to the table to talk to a balding man dressed in orange on the other side of the glass panel. Several more people were dotted through the long aisles, talking placidly or animatedly to a prisoner on the other side of the glass.

"Mr. Callahan?" the voice broke through his reverie, causing him to jump. The woman snickered. "I was just saying for you to move to aisle five," she explained, pointing a painted nail over to one of the chairs by the door.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you." He stuttered, shuffling over to the chair. He almost fell into it instead of taking a seat, and chuckled nervously. By the time he looked up to see if the dark-skinned guard was still watching him, she had already disappeared through the double doors leading into this room.

Dread washed over him like an unplugged drain. He was going to regret this, he definitely was. 

The white walls from beyond the panel stared back at him in their bland and emotionless way, the complete opposite of the ball of nerves he was becoming now. Suddenly he heard the creak of a door opening. Leaning across the table, he saw two guards open a large industrial door that connected to the white wall. A woman, skinny, with curly blond hair held back in a pony tail stepped through. Her face was downcast and she had a fading scar on her cheek that James recognized instantly.