Randy’s lawyer got him a plea deal: life in prison, which was better than a death sentence.
He didn’t really mind. He barely even noticed. With so many conflicting emotions rattling around in his head, his surroundings just didn’t seem to matter.
None of the other inmates bothered him, either. Word had gotten out that he’d been involved with The Killer’s Gallery. And if anyone in the prison knew anything, they knew not to fuck with The Killer’s Gallery.
So it was that he sat in the prison cafeteria by himself, eating the shitty meal that he was too preoccupied to actually taste.
The bright lights bore down, but they didn’t matter. A couple inmates stared at him, but they didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the voice in his head. He wasn’t quite sure whom it belonged to — it didn’t sound like him much at all — but it was unmistakably there.
It said, I’ve wanted to kill myself for a long, long time.