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Written for "In Oz Drabble Tree No One Can Hear You Scream". Prompt: Clicks into place.
Tarrant feels the weight of the gun in his hand as he raises it in broken desperation. Scared thoughts collide like bumper cars in fast-forward and ration tells him it's now or never, there's no turning back.
He doesn't belong in this place. He is not a murderer or rapist, pedophile or drug dealer. Artist versus artist, and the punishment is in excess of the crime. He won't last a week in this place and there is little sympathy in the eyes of those who should care, those who trade on words like rehabilitation, those who ignore the taunts and humiliation visited upon him.
Prison is death; the only question is will it be on his terms or theirs? In the split second before he pulls the trigger (over and over) it all clicks into place and adrenalin sets fire to his veins.
Fear is a powerful weapon used to break and destroy. It's time they got a good look at it.
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