Too Tough For Tears

The prison loomed ahead. Visible through the grime-spattered windscreen. It stood like some exaggerated and long-forgotten relic of yesteryear transposed to another time.




How many lives had been spent wasted behind its sullen stone walls? How many terrors did it hide? How many evils did it perpetuate?




Out of habit I checked the rear-vision mirror, making sure there were no police following. You always do that when you are on the run, and I had been on the run for most of my life. As I stopped the car I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. A flattened nose and leathery, lined skin testified to my wild, brawling past. I was a Christian now, but I still had the look of a criminal. I couldn't shake it, and the habits of years on the run - always watching for cops, always looking back over my shoulder - were still with me.