Return

He was going. He retched at the appearance of two guards in the doorway, both at least 6"2 with arms that could rip a baby in half, and faces that looked like they would. He had no choice but to go with them, though he was far from ready to go. He went, the docile prisoner, all the way to the prison gates, gently shifting the sharpened razor that was concealed in his fist. The guards stopped and turned towards him, and he could handle the anticipation no more. His adrenaline sliced the blade across the guards arm, doing little damage but causing massive commotion. He was beaten with a truncheon and frog marched back to his cell. Ron gently stroked the bars of the cell door and gazed lovingly at the dingy bunk and dirty toilet. He was home.