Page 2 of Walker

He was seriously abused as a child which led to him developing multiple personalities and almost all of them are not good.

I can feel his deep, dark eyes piercing into my face as I read over everything.

“Mr. Randoff, how are you today?” I ask him.

He jumps forward like he is going to attack me, but the chains stop him a foot away from me, his face straining and becoming redder by the second.

“Well, I’m assuming that you are not good.” I go over the list of different questions to ask him about how he is feeling, his mental state. He is void of emotions.

I look to the guards, and I write a prescription for him to start him off and hopefully help him.

I hand it off to the security guard and then he’s practically dragged out of the room, his eyes not leaving mine once.

“You okay, Summer?” one of the security guards asks.

I let out a deep breath. “I’m fine, just ready to get all of these visits over with.”

He studies me for a moment before he moves closer behind me which makes me feel a little bit safer.

I have five more clients before I’m done for the day. At least these men were more lucid than the first guy.

I’m escorted out and try to ignore the screaming men who are yelling at me through the cells. They’re so loud I can hear them through the glass.

I hurry out of the walkway, ready to get out of here. I just hope those men I prescribed meds to can be helped a teeny tiny bit.

I try to think that maybe there is a bit of good in everyone but hearing the stories I hear every day and being here, I know without a doubt there is extreme evil in this world. I’m faced with the haunted faces of those who have suffered by their hands.

One thing I’m more than ready for is to curl up in my bed and sleep the day away.

* * *

Darren

* * *

I fist the blanket at my side, waiting and fucking pleading for the images to escape from my mind, to give me a moment of peace to escape the horror.

The screams of my mother pleading to save my life, begging for them to not hurt me, never leave me.

Being in the SEALs all these years, I was too fucking exhausted to even dream because the second my head touched the pillow I was out. But when I returned home from the SEALs, the memories came back with a vengeance. I sit up in bed pressing my fists into my eyes.

I need to get out of here, I need to fucking breathe.

I slide out of the bed and into the kitchen to grab a beer. It’s fucking cold out here in Michigan, but it’ll be a nice distraction from my mind.

Sitting back on the porch swing, pulling the blanket over my legs, I take a long pull of my beer.

When I was ten years old, my mother and I lived on a horrible side of town. My mother would sleep in the living room in fear of someone breaking into the house while we slept.

And they did.

One night, I woke up to my mother screaming for me to hide. I didn’t. All I could think about was getting to my mother to make sure that she was okay.

They held us captive for twenty hours, torturing us for the fun of it. They didn’t kill us, but the remembrance of what they did to my mother is what haunts me.

I was too young to help her, too young to do anything but sit back and watch whatever she could do to protect me.

I want to hunt those fuckers down; it’s on my fucking mind every single day to make them hurt the way they hurt my mother. They are getting out of jail in a month, maybe that’s what’s causing these dreams to come back with a vengeance.

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