the pain reflected

It’s only been three hours since his toes were sliced off by a pair of gardening shears, and he was taken to the infirmary. It seems like a lifetime ago already, but the pain is fresh enough to convince him of this falsehood. He lies prone on his cot, staring at the wired bed frame above him. Every time he lets out a shuddered breath, the tiny movement pulses through him, all the way down his leg and to his foot. The severed nerves are tingling with feeling; feeling for something no longer there.

Funny, he thinks, how it hurts more after the fact than during the actual act itself. When the blades connected with a sharp “snip!“ it took nearly 20 seconds before the fiery pain ultimately shocked him.

He clenches his jaw and presses his fingers to his eyes to stop the flow of tears. He’s proud of himself for not losing it completely, only allowing himself to cry a little when Sara touched his ankle.

Two hours ago, she released him from the infirmary and he was escorted back to his cell by three guards, plus Bellick. It seemed like overkill, considering he could barely walk, but he supposed Bellick was making some kind of statement. Eyes narrowed, he hobbled along as best he could, his back ramrod straight, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Everyone had heard about the incident. The inmates stared as he passed their cells, then turned their eyes towards Abruzzi, the man responsible. Silently, those that would eventually leave the prison began counting the hours until they were released, hopefully with all appendages intact.

Michael entered his cell, listened to the door bang shut behind him, and looked into the mirror above the sink. His reflection was warped, twisted, a macabre image of something sprung from bad dreams.

And for the first time since he’d arrived at Fox River, Michael succumbed to the terrifying fear that he would fail.

~end