Resent, Reject, Regret

Chapter 8 He’s Not Granting Her Clemency

each swung a kick. Then they closed in and pinned each of her limbs in place. Deirdre was so shocked by the revelation that her mind went blank. She collapsed into tears, sobbing. “That’s not what he promised! That’s not what he said! He said I could keep the kid! He s-s-said he would make sure I survived!” Now all this torment and tribulations, as well as the guards’ grotesque negligence, made sense. Who else had the money and status to override the legal rights of an individual? Who else but Brendan Brighthall?! But… why? Why?! She had taken her place! She was doing Charlene’s time in her stead! Why had he not granted her clemency yet? Did he really hate her that much?! “God, whyyyyyy?!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. She felt like she was exploding into tears and pain—so much pain, flaring and burning and clawing at her innards, making her body implode against the sudden eruption. Even her hardened aggressors were taken aback. “F*ck, put her down, you idiots! Pry her mouth open! We’re getting this sh*t done right now, before she goes batsh*t crazy!” They overpowered Deirdre’s breakdown—hands over hands, fingers over fingers—and reached into the inner wall of her mouth, yanking hard. One of them dug a white pill out of her pocket and put it into Deirdre’s mouth. She fought, gagging to stop it from going down her throat. The inmate had difficulty carrying out her given order, which exasperated the leader. She jabbed her leg into Deirdre’s stomach, paralyzing her with pain and pushing the pill down her throat.  “Hey! Do you remember what else Mr. Brighthall said?” a short-haired woman whose role was to hold Deirdre’s arm in place chirped. She winked at the leader. “He said she doesn’t deserve to have a face like that, ‘member? If she’s gonna live, she should live with something that fits… her level of hideousness! So, what do you say we make that happen right now too?” The leader reeled in realization. She reached under her pillow and produced a large glass shard. “Damn straight,” she agreed, her lips twisting into a lopsided smile. “This is a f*cking murderer we have here, ladies! A murderer shouldn’t look remotely like—this!” A new shot of pain erupted in Deirdre’s stomach. It ate so deeply into her that she arched her back instinctively— Then, new, sharper pain came, tearing through Deirdre’s face. The women were