This body of mine may be weak but it does not know defeat.
I will paint the world one last picture; give them one last piece of Victor Pastore. Everyone will learn what happens to a man when he has nothing left to live for. The Victor Pastore you know, the man the newspapers love to write about is about to resurrect the hitman within him, the soldier before the mob boss. I hope the media is ready because this prison is going to become uncontrollable as I get reckless and this vendetta turns lethal.
There is no sharpened bolt under my cot, no guard to hand me a bible and turn his back as I kill yet another. I’m running on nothing but adrenaline and instinct.
Upon my arrival the correctional officers removed the shackles wrapped around my ankles and brought me into the main building to process my paperwork and complete my transfer. I was then escorted to the medical building where they would take my vitals, learn I was a lost cause and send me to my new cell.
My lungs were closing in on me and I gasped for breath.
“The doctor should be here any minute,” the young officer said.
I lift my eyes to him, taking in the helpless expression he adorned and the way he fidgeted, glancing over his shoulder to see if the doctor was on his way.
“What’s the matter, son,” I struggle. “This your first time watching a man die?”
He chose not to answer and instead wiped the sweat from his brow, making me wonder if he was a rookie.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir, should I?”
My lips quirk at his response.
“No, I don’t suppose you should,” I replied, struggling to breathe and bowing my head to focus on the linoleum floor.
The less you know, the better. The simpler this is for me.
Something shiny caught my eye causing me to narrow my eyes and focus on the silver circle that glistened against the black and white checkered flooring.
“Mr. Pastore?” I hear a soft voice say.
My eyes travel the sound of my name and find the face of a woman. She has innocent brown eyes that speak to me telling me she couldn’t be any more than thirty years old. Her brown hair is pulled back from her face, tied into a ponytail at the base of her neck. She smiles softly, cocking her head to the side as she averts her eyes back to my chart and her top teeth dig into her lower lip. I couldn’t peel my eyes from her, studying her features that were so like both my daughters but when her eyes find mine again, I decide she reminds me more of Adrianna than she did Nicole. It was the dullness reflected in her eyes that decided for me. I spent three years staring into similar eyes after Anthony went to prison. This doctor, like my daughter, had someone rip the sparkle right out of her eyes.
I wondered if it was her father that took away the shine like I had taken away Adrianna’s.
Probably not.
“I’m Dr. Gazelle,” she introduced herself, pulling up a stool and rolling closer. “Mr. Pastore—”
“Call me Victor,” I hiss before glancing down at the floor again at the object that held my attention before she walked into the room.
“It says here you’re not in the greatest of health, Mr. Pastore, I mean, Victor,” she says and I tear my eyes away from the floor to glance around the room. The guard was fidgeting again, pacing back and forth before he bumps into the metal tray and sends it rolling right toward us.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s my first day and I’m kind of nervous,” he admits when Dr. Gazelle turns around abruptly.
“We’ve all been there,” she soothes, pushing the metal tray aside so it rests between us. The tray is lined immaculately with instruments you’d likely see in an emergency room, a small pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers and lastly a needle and thread.
“I’m sorry, as I was saying, you’re pretty sick, Mr. Pastore,” she continues, frowning deeply as she flips the pages of my chart.
“How old are you, Dr. Gazelle?”
She closes my chart, rests it on top of her lap before she folds her hands neatly and lifts her sorrowful eyes. I wait for her to answer but she keeps her lips closed in a tight line, studying me with the same intensity she did my medical records.
I take a deep breath, the biggest one my lungs will allow and force a smile.
“Twenty-nine,” she finally replies.
“I have two daughters, both in their twenties,” I tell her. “I saw them a few days ago and though their faces are fresh in my memory, I can’t help miss them like crazy.”
I brought my closed fist to my mouth and coughed uncontrollably. My chest ached as I abused what was left of my lungs. Dr. Gazelle stood quickly, turning around to the guard.
“Go get him a glass of water,” she ordered.
“But—” he stammers.