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Title:
A State of Grace
Author: monimalaE-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "The Shawshank Redemption"
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: Frank Darabont and Stephen King created the Heywood persona and
Bill Sadler brought him to life.
Notes: Here we go...a VAS/WS.com
contest fic. :-). I figured I'd best try something other than Jim Valenti
for once.
He
closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Red's harmonica echo through
the block. Sweet, soulful, music. Soon there was only gonna be silence. He
knew Red was up for a parole hearing soon and, deep in his gut, he was sure
that meant one more pal was going to fly the coop. All of Shawshank was
still buzzing with stories about Andy's escape and every damn fool thing
Andy had ever done. Hell, he told most of 'em. It was his only claim to
fame these days. "I knew Andy Dufresne, yes Sirree."
Thirty
years. He'd been behind these walls for thirty years. He hadn't been young
for most of 'em. Every morning, in the showers, while he was ducking the
Sisters, he found another silver hair among all the strands of blond. He
was getting on in years...and he was going to die alone.
He was
sure of it.
"Amazing
Grace." Red was playing "Amazing Grace" now.
He'd a
sweetheart named Grace once, hadn't he? When he was sixteen and an even
bigger bastard. A redhead. With big, bright, green eyes. And a set of tits
so fine his hands still remembered their shape. The one, shining, lovely
girl who hadn't laughed when he stuttered or called him a
"Dummy". Naw, instead, Gracie Woodburn had just taken his face
between her hands and kissed him good and hard behind the General Store.
And they'd gone all the way in her daddy's pick-up truck on the Fourth of
July. Heckuva fireworks show. Yeah, definitely amazing Grace.
Where
was Gracie now? Married with a passel of kids? Dead and buried? Like he
would be soon. Naw, he wasn't getting out like Red would. He wasn't
"redeemable". And he wasn't escaping neither. He wasn't smart
like Andy. It would just be him alone, in this narrow little bed, with
pretty pin-ups on the wall (and not a single Grace among 'em).
Sure,
he could tell stories. When he was old and bent and his voice shook like
old Brooks. He could be that old fella that no one paid mind to and even
the guards pushed around. "Why, back in the '50s, I tarred the roof of
this prison with the great Andy Dufresne. He was the only lucky S.O.B. to
ever escape here, you know."
Yep,
that was his legacy. Staying in this shitheap and passing on somebody
else's great accomplishment. Whoopty-fucking-doo.
The
curse of the guilty.
He
reckoned he deserved it. Getting soused on Moonshine...getting into a fight
with Bobby Ray Steele outside the drugstore at 4 in the morning...knives
flashing...blood pumping from Bobby Ray's neck. All around stupidity on his
part. There was no rest for the stupid, right? Or was that the 'wicked'?
Would
Grace Woodburn pray for him? For a 48-year-old convict who'd been an idiot,
murdering, kid once? For a 48-year-old convict who couldn't even wipe his
ass without another man's say-so? Hell, maybe she would pray for the boy
she'd sparked in a beat-up truck.
He
wasn't sure that boy still existed.
Across
the way, Red was working on another song, pulling notes from the beat-up
Jew's harp and making it sound like a whole cell block full of men crying.
Heywood
brushed at the tears on his cheeks and rolled over on his bunk, staring at
the outline of Marilyn Monroe.
"Play
something cheerful, you damned, cocksuckin' Sumbitch!" he shouted out,
hoarsely.
The
music stopped for just a second, and he knew Red was probably grinning like
Old Jimmy Satan himself. And then he started in on "Camptown
Races." Right cheerful. Upbeat. Making some of the guys rap on their
bars and keep time.
Doo
dah. Doo dah.
He
dragged a hand through his hair. Swallowed a couple of times. A lump rose
in his throat. He knew he'd look like a pansy if he yelled out for another
round of "Amazing Grace". So, he just closed his eyes and hummed
it.
In his
head, he kissed her good and hard behind the general store.
And he
wasn't alone anymore.
--The
End--
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