Page 34 of Rage

The last thing I remembered before he threw the washrag over my face was the undeniable scent of something chemical–chloroform, I would later figure out, a substance he’d been abusing that had been the perfect way to frame me, put me at the scene, and incapacitate me long enough to switch places.

It wasn’t the perfect crime, as far as crimes go, but the DNA that would typically be used to prove me innocent and him guilty was absent—because any DNA at the crime scene would match us both.

They didn’t listen to me when I finally regained my composure and my senses, screaming in a cell at the general lockup about being framed and a twin brother and how it was all a mistake. The cops beat my ass and cuffed me, then humiliated me by taking my clothes and dressing me in a paper gown—suicide watch, they called it.

A week later, I’d stopped screaming to be let out. Two weeks later, I was being trotted out in front of a packed courtroom to face my accusers—the prosecutor, in my case.

Two months later, I was sentenced to ten years, the sentence much lighter than it should have been, thanks to my brother’s moving speech on my addictions and drug abuse and not being in my right state of mind.

My mother turned her back on me. She assumed I was the child she’d always had problems with. Tony had done a great job covering his tracks, assimilating into my life well enough to fool even our parents. He took over my career, took over my home, fucked my girlfriend, even dropped my dog off at the humane society as a stray.

That hurt more than knowing my girlfriend didn’t realize she wasn’t fucking me anymore. That it wasn’tmycock slipping between her lips every morning.

Two years with the bitch, and she jumped on someone else’s cock just because he claimed to be me.

It must’ve been an excellent cover he’d put together. Or a really shitty girlfriend. Come to think of it, it might have been a little of both.

A knock at my cell door jarred me from the morbid thoughts and reminiscing about a crime I didn’t commit. My least favorite corrections officer stood in my doorway, his twisted smile more like a smirk that promised pain. He was the type who liked to use the criminals in his care as part of an underground betting ring to line his own pockets in exchange for little favors. He’d tapped me when I first came in, thinking I was some wild and crazy junkie with aggressive tendencies. He had no reason to think I was some bank teller from the middle of Iowa with a thick accent and a predisposition for girls whose curves were as soft as my hands.

I got my ass kicked so bad those first few fights, I had to spend a week in the infirmary. When I came back to my cell, he beat me again and left me lying there in my own personal hell.

I learned how to fight after that. Worked out as best I could. Bulked up and got fit and picked up skills to survive the next ten years in this fucking concrete nightmare.

And here he was again, after promising me two weeks off from the fights thanks to a broken rib I picked up from the last match.

I rolled over on my bunk and shielded my eyes from the annoying ass fluorescent lights overhead. “What the fuck do you want, Macy?”

His nightstick collided with my cell bars with an angryping,making my ears ring. “That’sOfficer Macyto you, inmate.”

“Sorry,” I amended, rolling into a sitting position. “Officer Macy, how delightful to have you gracing the doorway of my humble abode. Whatever could I do for you on this fine day? Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

“Har de har har, asshat,” he growled, stepping into my domain with zero fear. He’d turned me into a literal fighting machine, and yet acted like the tiger wouldn’t jump him at the first opportunity and slit his pig throat. “I need you to come back early for a fight today.”

“Our deal was for two weeks, Macy,” I said dryly, jerking a thumb at the calendar behind me on the wall. “It’s been one.”

“I know what it’s been, Accetta. I can read a fucken calendar.”

The urge to mock him was too good to pass up. “Coulda fooled me.”

That one earned a boot to the side of my leg. Fuck all, it hurt when you got kicked by one of these fuckers’ steel-toed work shoes.

“You fight tonight, and I’ll make it worth your while. I’ve got a lot riding on tonight, and my other guy is in the hole, so he’s out.” His eyes scanned me up and down in a pointed look of sheer disgust. “You’re all I got on short notice.”

“How convenient,” I muttered, rubbing the side of my shin. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll put in a call to your parole board and get you out of here at your next hearing.”

All thought of the sore rib I was nursing, the aching throb in my leg, fled the building as my mind processed what he’d just said.

I could be a free man.

My last hearing hadn’t gone so well. They denied me parole based on my brother’s concern that I might be a flight risk. That I might not be rehabilitated enough yet. He was really just gunning for me to snap in here and be declared mentally unwell. Or killed in some freak accident.

But the parole board ate it up, as always.

Having the word of an officer lent me a level of credibility I couldn’t gain on my own. And if he knew someoneonthe board, my chances of getting out of this place were as good as gold.

Still…why would he let his cash cow go so easily?

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