Chapter 1 - Resurface - Phantom

Foot falls echoed into the darkness. After a long pause, the scraping of a metal key rattling in a lock, the heavy cell door clanged, slowly open. The sickly orange glow from the corridors lighting was revealed, stood silhouetted in the doorway was a thick set, rough looking prison guard, bull necked with a bald head and covered in badly spelt tattoos. 'The time has finally come, I must say, I had money on you dying in here,' the guard rumbled, flexing his shoulders and cracking this knuckles, in what most would find an intimidating fashion. 'Better luck next time,' the inmate retorted, nonchalantly shrugging from his cot. The Prisoner blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to this new light source, combating the complete darkness of the maximum security containment cell, he had spent so long in. He gently eased himself off his bunk, the glow slowly revealing his figure as he walked towards the doorway and out of the darkened squallier of his cell. Pasty, scarred hands, a broad muscular chest covered by a sweat stained prison uniform and finally a face completely encased in dirty, matted bandages, stained brown with dried blood. The guard inspected the prisoner, trying to register any weakness in the man, who should have been a wreck after such a stint of imprisonment. Disheartened with his findings the guard then coughed as a foul stench broke over him, a smell of bestial filth which emanated from the confinement cell and oozed thickly from the inmate himself. 'Take this animal to the showers; we can't have our esteemed guest vacating this fine establishment of correction such a state of inhumanity.' The lead guard, putting on a mocking heir of grandeur while subtly trying to breathe through his mouth, waved the prisoner on. The inmate was match off down the corridor by a squad of four of the prisons biggest and meanest gorillas. He smiled to himself; evidently he had left an impression from the last time he was allowed out of his cell. He wondered how long it had been since his last outing. He stripped off in the changing room, the room was deserted, all the other prisoners had been cleared of the area and even the guards had remained outside. They had definatly remembered his last trip to the showers and what happened to the guards who wanted to keep permanent sentry on him. The water ran over his head and cascaded over his body, the skin underneath slowly revealed after years of grim, sweat and blood was scrapped away. He watched as the viscous black stream snaked across the white tiled floor and circled around the drain, a fitting visual of the years he had just lost to this 'fine establishment of correction'. When he returned to the changing room, a fresh set of bandages awaited him along with the dark grey suit, brown leather gloves, dark tinted glasses and smart but comfortable shoes he arrived in (all those years ago). He dressed and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as he had but even though he maintained his psychical form, the confinement weighed heavily on his shoulders. Had it all been worth it? Upon leaving the room, the awaiting guards visibly flinched at the sight of him, even though they towered a good foot above him and his movements weren't aggressive. Regaining their gruff façade they gestured him on through the prison. As in the case of the shower room, the corridors were deserted and the route the guards took him were via maintenance corridors and offices, not the usual thoroughfares and general populous cell blocks. He wondered once again had this been for his own safety or for the safety of others? Eventually the procession arrived in front of a small, barred window with a bespectacled, plump man sat within the office. His uniform was impeccable, even his badge had been polished; the archetype of administrative bureaucracy. He man looked up from a neat stack of paperwork. 'Hmm no name attached to these belongings, they must be yours,' the name chuckled. 'Check the contents and sign here,' he tapped a form attached to a clipboard. The inmate emptied the battered, paper bag methodically and placed its various silver trinkets and leather pouches into his numerous pockets dotted around his suit. Turning to the form, he chuckled as he saw the cracked biro attached, via sellotape, to the desk by a piece of twine. 'People really will nick anything, especially around here,' the inmate croaked to the storeman and signed the paperwork with a fine gold fountain pen he had retrieved from his possessions. With that he turned towards the door, towards the light streaming through the exit, a golden beacon shining a path to freedom. Then he stopped, turned to the lead guard and shook his trembling hand. 'No hard feelings,' the newly freed man hissed, venom dripping from each syllable, which made the nervous guard start violently and swallow hard, creating just enough of a distraction that the man never felt the prisoner remove his wedding ring right off his finger. With this final victory achieved and the prize secured within his gloved hand, he walked out into freedom.