Free Faces in Time by Lewis E. Aleman

head.
    Surely if Edmund were caught now, face and head shorn too smoothly for the regulation safety razor, standing in street clothes, it wouldn’t bode well for the length of his prison sentence. Contraband can add time, especially in the case of the razor which is considered a dangerous weapon, and an attempted escape is a guarantee of more time.
    Their discussions began a few months before and were mulled over and refined until finalized two weeks ago. It all started when Detective Paul Andarus came to the prison to ask some questions about one of Edmund’s acquaintances who was a suspect in a homicide investigation. Edmund was offered time off his sentence for cooperation, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t say whether he knew anything or not. He didn’t say a word. Both the detective and Rutherford were sure he knew something, but there wasn’t a whole lot else either of them could legally do to make him talk.
    The detective seemed almost relieved that Edmund didn’t get a reduced sentence, and Rutherford, while irritated on the outside, made a mental note of a man with a colorful record who could keep his mouth shut. That’s when the eyebrow first raised; that’s when Edmund knew the deputy warden might bend to the right persuasion. The unrecovered money from his armed robbery quickly grabbed the interest of Rutherford, and the engine of avarice revved into redline, kicking out the polluted beginnings of the plan.
    The quiet buzz of an electric hum causes the door to pop open. It’s excited Edmund every time he’s heard it, but never quite like what he feels now. Everything else tells him to run. Tear down the hallway. Escape.
    But, malice causes him to smile and be still. Patience has been his adversary as far back as his brain will let him remember, and he grasps it now with two anxious hands as it’s the only medicine to satisfy the growling rage rampaging in his chest.
    Deputy Warden Rutherford’s hand releases the button, and his body turns quickly from it toward the end of the hall. His hand is grasped in an angry, gloved grip. Bewildered, Rutherford looks wildly past the hand that has grabbed him, down the uniformed arm, and up to the face of his aggressor. The clenching hand releases him as roughly as when it just clasped him.
    “Chapet—” is all that makes it out of Rutherford’s mouth.
    Sting burns into his side as 50,000 volts rush through his body.
    The floor seems to reach up and smack the side of his face. Twitching and pulsing flip and flop him on the ground in a quiet excruciation. The only sounds are the flickering and popping of the electricity and a meek, shrill whine that comes from deep within him.
    The whine comes in the same rhythm as the pulses of the Taser, much like someone saying a long, drawn out         “a-a-a-h” while smacking one’s throat at a consistent interval. His whimpering releases memories of the sound his hunting dog once made when bitten by a snake.
    Rutherford ’s vision is jumble, but it’s a blur of his newest correctional
officer
looming over him.
    It’s supposed to be a five-count. Rutherford has felt this before as all officers are required to experience a five second blast from a regulation Taser. He tries to count in his head without much success. He’s certain it’s been longer than five seconds, but certainty and neurological discomfort don’t mix well.
    It’s not a physical pain, but a helpless discomfort that leaves him feeling violated and completely defeated. Each pop of the current is a chime remindim that he is immobile on the floor and incapable of moving any part of him to prevent whatever trauma will come next.
    Every muscle is involuntarily listless; every fiber is full of surrender.
    His eyes are now on the shiny black shoes of the man lording over him; they come in and out of focus, as fuzzy as the pulse of the Taser. His mind is in a glacially slow panic; the Taser taking its effect there too. The word Taser passes