KC’s Redemption

Hope it isn’t the old battle-ax. What a bitter old woman! Handcuffed, shackled about the waist, and wearing leg irons, KC stumbled. Handcuffs are one thing, but do they really think I’m a hardened criminal? It struck her as funny. Of course they do. I’m in prison.

“Watch your step, clumsy!” barked the guard. He grabbed her belt.

She glared at him. You try walking with leg irons, buddy! Her eyes burned with anger.

He pushed her toward the administrative office. Not a word was uttered. Static from his radio broke the silence.

“Open gate 101,” he said as he leaned his head toward the radio. With a loud buzz, the electronic door slid open. The two stepped inside, and the metal gate banged shut.

“That way.” The guard shoved KC toward the left. She heard his keys rattle as he reached to unlock the gray metal door. “Prisoner Elliott, 03011980,” he announced in a monotone. “Elliott, sit down,” a raspy voice demanded.

Oh, great! It is the battle-ax. God, what did I do to get her? I thought she retired. It had to be a rumor. KC sat on a hard, metal chair. She hasn’t changed much since the last time. Hair has gotten grayer, and it isn’t even a distinguished gray. Must still be smoking—fingers nicotine-stained yellow and a deep smoker’s voice. Others have said she has a three-pack-a-day voice too. Protocol required her to remain silent until addressed. Well, she’s sure takin’ her sweet time. Her stomach growled, breaking the stillness in the room. “Oh, excuse me.” It was out of her mouth before she realized she’d uttered it.

“Quiet!” Geraldine Grossman demanded as she glowered at KC.

Disposition hasn’t improved either. Demanding, arrogant, and insensitive.

“Well, Elliott, I see you’ve applied for parole, again,” Grossman spoke. “What makes you think the state should grant it this time?”