Solace of the Weary

Spoiler:

Saving graces are strange things.

She reached out, hesitant, and brushed her fingers against the clenched jaw of the man standing before her. “Don’t you ever wish it could all just go away?”

He smiled, aberrantly, and she was startled into reciprocating.

“Hasn’t it already?”

Yes, his saving grace, the single thing that redeemed him, the single thing that made her keep coming back to him, was that he could make her forget the world.






People call me Wolf.

Nicknames can have a variety of origins. Maybe a younger sibling mispronounced a given name and the strange, shortened, simplified version stuck, or perhaps parents were too lazy to repeat the name they had bestowed upon their own offspring. Maybe it had to do with physical appearance; “Red” could refer to hair, for example.

Most everyone has a nickname, don’t they? A term of endearment from a friend or lover, a cute moniker to sign at the end of emails and suicide notes.

My colleague, Addison Lewis, goes by Addie. She says that Addison sounds foreign to her ears. Addison is an entirely different persona, someone uptight and professional, not carefree, stubborn, lively as Addie.

I am Wolf.

It is not an abbreviated form of any of my names. The print on the birth certificate buried somewhere in my dad’s attic in Miami Beach declares me as James Charles Dean. “Three first names,” Addie remarked with a grin when she first met me. But even she began to call me Wolf as time went on.

My looks have nothing to do with it, not if a clean-shaven, five-foot-something tall, 200-something pound can be mistaken as a shaggy beast with glittering fangs and evil eyes, equally scintillating but more intimidating by far. It’s odd to think about, a glance being more feared than the lethal set of choppers. But if you’ve ever seen a wolf up close and personal, you would understand. These creatures are wise. Wisdom radiates from the soul, and the eyes, as everyone knows, are the windows to the soul. They know your fear. They know your flaws.

The other aspect that can lead to a nickname is personality.

That would be where my name comes in.

I am Wolf.



This business is a demanding one, situated at the heart of an even more demanding town.

The hustle and bustle of Branston, West Virginia, is deafening. Even in the dead of night, when I’m pacing up and down the long rows of General Population, there is something to be overheard. Even enclosed behind the impossibly solid brick walls of a state penitentiary.

But then again, this place was not designed to keep life out. It was supposed to keep the failed attempts, the mishaps, the rejects of society locked inside. And us, the correctional officers who keep our heads bowed and our attention rapt, locked along with them.

How did I end up in this place?

Step, step.

Inhale, exhale.

When I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a teacher. When I was in college, I wanted to be a physcologist. I wanted to specialize in criminal physcology. It’s kind of ironic to think about it now.

My full first and last name are printed on the plastic nametag pinned on the lapel of my uniform. I loathe this, for two reasons: I haven’t been referred to as “Addison” since my seventh-grade teacher snapped at me for breaking an empty fish tank in the back of the classroom, and secondly, because it draws more attention to the fact that I have differing anatomy than the majority of either my coworkers or the inmates.

Being a female officer in a male penal system is hard. I’ve had my share of leers from the inmates, especially the ones in the yard who have a false sense of comfort when under the sunlight and in the fresh air. I wear the loosest shirt and pants that I can get away with, but it doesn’t hide the curves that set me apart from the men in the break room at shift change.

Step, step.

Inhale, exhale.

Repeat.

Just three more hours until I can go home.

But it’s a vicious cycle; I will be back here again by this time tomorrow.

And repeat.

Sometimes I forgot you're only 15--which in this case, is a good thing. Your writing is very incredible and your vocabulary range amazes me. Plus, the story is epic!!!! You're going to continue right?? I hope so! Great job!

Thank youuuuu. ;]

I'm definitely continuing, haha. I usually suck at actually sitting down and writing something, especially something original, but I want to stick it out this time. Most of my writing will probably take place over the summer. >.< Or at least after all the craziness at school dies down...

But yes. It will continue.

It's a crazy, wild, unimaginable thought, but ES would like to get published someday. This might be the first step.

This town is a small one. It would make one wonder why the state decided to stick a prison in the middle of the dislocated strait of the Bible Belt. You won’t find a place with more copies of the Good Word on the nightstand – right above the locked drawer with the gun in it.

I’ve been asked if it’s frightening to work in a prison. Wide-eyed WASPs crowd around, hoping for a good story, and walk away disappointed, because, the truth is, no one is more dangerous than the townsfolk themselves. You should worry more about them stabbing you in the back than getting stuck with a shank.

There’s an unwritten code of conduct behind bars. The prisoner’s way of life is a completely different system of dispensing justice. While Southwest West Virginia Penitentiary has its fair share of blood and tears shed, it can’t be said that it is unfair. If a prisoner steps over the boundary line, he’s going to get shoved back into his place, either by a C.O. or another prisoner, whoever gets to him first. Your buddies back you up, whether you’re an inmate or an officer.

Out in the wilderness of Branston, however, there is no sanctuary. There aren’t alliances; it’s every man for himself.

There is much more to fear when I leave through the gatelodge, past the barbed-wire fences that jut out of the earth like rows of crooked teeth, into my car and down the road. Adrenaline throbbed in my ears, a backbeat to the thoughts I’d been pushing down, and I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the car drift.

What would it feel like to skid?

The thought took me aback. My eyes flickered open, surveying the quiet, dimly lit road to assure that there was no such danger, no glistening patches of ice that would send me and the two-ton car flying. I settled back into the seat, and back into my twisted little mentality. In my mind’s eye, I pictured an overturned car in an embankment of snow on the side of the road, mangled metal and utter silence. Blood tingeing the pure white a ghastly shade of red. Sirens somewhere in the distance, but not for hours after the fact. I would not be missed until my shift at the prison the next evening, and no one would drive down this road until day started to break.

By then, it would be too late.

Of course, nothing of the sort actually happened. I drove slowly, carefully back to my tiny house in the pocket of the town, pulling into the driveway and shifting into park. I sat there for a moment, staring at the peeling fabric in the interior of my dinosaur of a car, and then reached for a pack of cigarettes. As far as vices went, this was the one that provided some sort of comfort. I flicked a lighter effortlessly, and bent the flame toward the cigarette in my mouth. The end crackled as it met the heat. I hesitated before drawing a breath. I wasn’t stupid, far from it, actually. I had graduated from Georgetown, at the top of my class.

I knew the chemicals, the tar, the addictive qualities of cigarettes. I knew the consequences of chain-smoking. I knew the social stigmas, the health risks. And maybe that was what kept me coming back for more. I’ve always been somewhat of a masochist, after all.

Shame on you Wolf! Chain-smoking is bad! Haha, I loved it! You continue to wow me ES with your writing skillz!!!! Whatever your school is teaching you in english/writing, their doing an awesome job! Unless its a natural talent? Either way, I'm super impressed!

Keep it coming!!!