The Inmate (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Inmate

The remedy was a simple matter for Sgt. Windhook, the simplicity of it was just that easy. Safeguards in shadow, an inmate in courts of confinement and faraway, at arms length and by a thousand miles of steel. The miracle of seasoned isolation wore the sanctity of the sergeants’ safe haven, secure, looked up and undeviating. The Psy Research Facility was sponsored by Vermont Horizons Inc., also known as Telemetry Visions Corp. and in retrospect, the Bastille. Sgt. Windhook watched the vine, the wine of countless parishioners and researchers and more importantly the purveyors of a $465.00 paycheck.
He danced in the fluorescent lights of the ten by ten cell. The vine was a young man in his twenties shorn with a buzz cut and piercing dark eyes. He saw Windhook peering in at him and he hooted, “YYYYYEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAWWWWWWW!.” Windhook grimaced and watched as the vine concealed his face with cupped hands, a moment later he was looking at the reflection of his own face. The vine growled and in spontaneous ascertation manifest the face of a wolf. Sgt. Windhook staggered back from the tiny window glass and gasped, “Oh my god!” continuing down the row of cells he made a point of ignoring the howls coming from the vines cubicle. Sgt. Windhook wondered and contemplated the strength of the steel doors as he finished his round.