The Extradition

Daniel T. Pryor The angel blew her trumpet, and far to the east I could see her sitting upon the sky. Before me, my hands were bound, a restraint commanded by protocol. Prison most certainly awaited, and this confinement had brought with it such incredible despair, not even death seemed an equitable release. Penance was the present measure of this failure, and it was just a portent of the horrors to come. For this day, there would be a long journey north, away from the city by the sea to the inland jails, far removed from the grungy and drug-infested street life I had come to know. A sadness welled within me. It was so powerful I felt my chest expand with preternatural despair as the sorrow and loneliness of the day marshaled force around my heart, and all life and hope were fairly crushed within me. My eyes flooded with tears, and I thought of Bobby. Would he soon forget me? Jocko was almost a distant memory, and all of the happiness he had hoped for me seemed forever lost to the tattered remnants of my past. Mom! No life or success would ever emerge from this place. No dream could ever thrive. No love would be known hence, and no desire should find perch upon my barren soul! The world had ended for me, and the angelic trumpeter simply sat, motionless, upon the sky, far to the east, silent and ghostly. The sky was never so blue, and no cloud had ever been so puffy and lovely. The bucolic place through which we passed, and that God-like azure beauty of the sky above, seemed the certain proof that all the world was heaven, and I was being cast from this place to my private hell. What devil would wish to reign here? What demon would curse the creator above and demand rule of this tormented existence? For all of the loss and all the hurt and all the breathless gasps for reason that lay before me and behind me, I could fathom no creature of Milton that would ever spite love, itself, just to be master of this palpable and elusive agony! Nightmares are better things than this. War would be preferable. Here I sat, bound and trapped, witness to an inescapable and unknown day and week and month and year to come. All the years and months and days that had been now wrest my last measure of sanity, and I steeled myself for the inevitable. The trumpeter was gone.