Prologue

It is the stale air of imprisonment which you'll catch first, or it may be the unusual curtain of silence that covers the cell block. Most of the time, the halls are filled with chatter, and the occasional jeers of a scuffle.

Not tonight though.

As mentioned, the prison hall is quiet - The silence teetering between eerie and serene.

One might assume it’s sleeping hours, but nope - The night is still far too young.

So, the cause of silence? 

A sudden announcement which echoed through the halls a few hours ago - A program mandatory for those who are not scheduled for any chores.

Tonight, the prison work routine hangs clandestine in the hall.

The task of ‘shower clean-up’ in particular has seen some odd changes.

The time has been shifted close to the night time, and coincidentally, it's the same time as the announced program.

Yes, a coincidence indeed.

The typical five person standard for the clean up duty has been lowered to two, and their names have been printed just adjacent to the assigned job. Of the two names, one sits on the paper with a presence of its own, and it makes sense.

It did belong to that man, after all.

The man who dominated the underworld for decades, and his legends only grew stronger with the years. Most who have dabbled in the world of organized crime have heard the tales of his escapades. The stories seem to border on the edge of impossible, but rest assured, they are real - Not like anyone is brave enough to challenge the stories, even though the living legend is in his sixties.

Why would they?

Even with age, he was the once-loyal underling of the most influential crime lord and his most ruthless attack dog to date. So ruthless indeed that the crime lord met his end in the very jaws of his loyal attack dog.

The dog was called Morris.

The stories became cemented in history, and the streets named him The Owl - The moniker given in respect to the tales and also his uncanny attention to detail, reminiscent of an owl’s piercing and focused gaze.

At present, the Owl is being escorted out of his nest - His cell was cleaned up to the tiniest detail, almost like a sendoff. On the tidied up bunk bed, remains his worn out journal. Today, he has written just two lines - Two lines for the end.

The walk to the showers was without any exchange of words. The two guards, on either side, refused to form eye contact, and the other inmate was made to walk a few feet back. In this escorted stroll, the signs of something ominous were wafting through the air.

But Morris already knew.

In fact, he knew way before he stepped outside his cell - The signs were too obvious.

The change in his prison work schedule.
The timing of the announced program.
The enrolment of a new inmate.
The addition of new wardens.

All regular occurrences, until they take place at the same time.

As they reach the communal shower, he goes in with the supply cart first, whilst the two guards stand outside with the inmate. Morris grabs the mop, the handle peppered with splinters and sticky muck. 

It has become obvious what will happen - The showers are the perfect place for secrecy in prison for the obvious lack of cameras.

He knows, yet he is still here.

It’s not a challenge, it’s acceptance.

Everyone saw The Owl.

But no one knew about the man in the mirror.

Who is that? 
Oh, just a man Morris sees every morning when he washes his face - Not that he has ever formed steady eye contact. Not that he can.

Born into garbage, lived like trash, and now dying in filth.

A comically poetic end perfect for the likes of him.

As he faces the wall and wipes at the stubborn dark spots, his cleaning partner finally steps in but Morris makes no effort to defend, flee or converse - He doesn’t even bat an eye. In fact, he doesn’t even turn around.

In his last standing moments, he gazes at his own skin. How it has started to wrinkle around his marred forearms, the vibrant tattoos mingling with the pale scars, both of which have their own stories. Maybe his mind is seeking refuge from the fear of death - No matter how stoic one acts, the grim reaper's touch can make any mortal tremble.

On the shiny tile walls, he can see the faint reflection of something sharp being pulled out yet he shall not turn - His time has come. The last two lines he had scribbled down, now seem like the perfect end credits for this life of blood and disgust.

We choose where we lead our lives.

I chose wrong.