Free Deadly Passion, an Epiphany by Gabriella Bradley

sentenced to this place, what was it he was accused of?
    From listening to some of the men talking, he was surrounded by murderers, coldblooded killers, rapists and terrorists. He’d scrutinized them all carefully to see if he recognized anyone, maybe spot the person who’d blown up the club. He or she could be a foreigner. The nightclub had been packed with all manner of people, many different races. When he wasn’t dancing with Georgia, he’d sat and watched all the people, wondering who they all were, where they all came from.
    Several new workers had arrived. He glanced at them but didn’t recognize any faces. Some of the workers were even women, rough, tough, and ready to sell their bodies and souls for extra bonuses.
    His mind drifted to what burned a hole in his own soul, the killings he’d had to live with all these years. No one had ever found the bodies of the three men he’d killed. He could still see Megan’s face, her dirty torn clothes, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Georgia wasn’t home when it had happened. He’d dealt with it himself and after Megan had bathed and he’d tucked her into bed, he’d made her swear never to tell her mother. He’d gotten the names out of Megan. His rage had consumed him and he’d taken his shotgun and waited for the three men outside the bar, the only bar in their small town. Pretending to be drunk, like them, he’d offered them a ride. Then he’d driven them far out of town. The men hadn’t even noticed. They hooted and hollered the whole way, still sharing a bottle of whiskey.
    After he’d pulled up deep in the bush, he said he needed to go for a piss. They got out of the truck and stood drinking near the trees. He remembered the lewd remarks they’d made about his girl. It had fired his rage into an inferno. He’d shot them fast, first two of them. The third was so drunk and in disbelief he didn’t even think to run while Harold reloaded. Then he buried them. To the day of the explosion at the club, they’d been listed as missing. Their bodies were never found.
    But what he’d done was engraved on his soul and had eaten at him all these years. He should have taken Megan to the cops, the hospital, let the law deal with the men, rather than take matters into his own hands. He tried to justify his act—they would have been released eventually and possibly rape other women and girls. He’d done the world a favor by getting rid of them.
    Georgia had never suspected anything. She was home when he’d returned and thought he’d been working late in the fields. It wasn’t unusual for him to be out on the farm working till midnight.
    For six years he’d lived the lie, sat in church on Sundays feeling like a heel, a hypocrite. Hell, his girl was only thirteen, still a child. She’d done okay, though. She seemed to have coped with the trauma all on her own. Never mentioned a word to Georgia. She was such a good girl, his Megan. He’d been against her move to New York, but after meeting Mark, and really liking him, he was glad she’d become involved with a good man and was going to settle down and get married.
    “Harry! Keep that fire goin’!” One of the guards wielded his whip.
    Harold flinched. He’d become oblivious to the pain it caused. Nothing mattered anymore except to get out of this pit and be reunited with his Georgia and their children. If she’s still alive, if she survived the blast. Is this payback for killing Jack, Colin and Dennis? Is this my retribution? But no one knows. Not a soul. They deserved what they got. Did I somehow get blamed for what happened at the club? The questions roiled through his mind, twenty-four hours a day, causing many a restless night.
    “Motherfucker!”
    The whip crashed down on his back again. He hurried to shovel more coal into the blazing furnace. The flames leapt out at him. He jumped back, their fiery licking tongues reminding him of the raging inferno in the nightclub, seeing his girl writhing in