Parole

 

Jack couldn’t go back to prison. He couldn’t take another day incarcerated let alone 25 to life. So he shot his girlfriend. Meh, that bitch slept with every guy she came across. You don’t get away with that shit. So, he popped her, and now the cops are on his tail. He needed a place to hide. So, when Davy came up to him to say he had just the place, Jack was all for it. That’s when Davy took out his pistol and fired right into Jack’s head.

Nothing. Jack turned and shoved his friend, demanding to know why he’d fire an unloaded gun at him. Silently, Davy pointed toward the ground, where the deceased body of Jack Mulaney lay. 

“Aight, Jack. Here’s you go. You got a half hour to find a body to hide in, otherwise you’re gonna end up somewhere you don’t wanna be. I’d be lookin’ if I were you. Boston’s a big town. Lotsa people.” A confused Jack ran down the alleyway his dead body lay in, and out onto the streets of Boston. 

Standing on the sidewalk, tens of people bustled by, blurring into an incomprehensible mess. On his right, a beautiful blonde woman in a green trenchcoat walks by, her red stiletto heels clicking on the pavement. On his left, a middle aged man with glasses in a tweed day suit. Both people lasted only a few seconds in his line of vision before disappearing into the sea of faces. Jack reached out, his hand colliding with an older man with thin, wispy hair. The old man looked around, his gaze staring beyond Jack for only a moment before moving on.

It was at this point that Travis had walked by Jack, on his way back to Berklee School of Music. Jack decided to lock onto the hipster, and follow him. Better a goody two shoes body then no body at all! The kid was so fuckin’ lame. He walked around in a plaid flannel and white button up shirt. His thick rimmed glasses reminded Jack of a 1960′s nerd, further supported by his brown loafers and khakis. This kid was a total geek, and wouldn’t be that difficult to overpower.

Jack followed Travis all the way back to the lecture hall. History of Southeastern Asian Music: sounds boring as hell, or at least Jack thought so. Travis was about five minutes late, so he took a solitary seat in the back of the auditorium. Perfect, no one would care too much, the majority of students were near the front. Now it was simply a matter of slipping into Travis. That part was the part Davy had lovingly neglected to elucidate to Jack when everything transpired. So, he concluded he ought to just wing it. Time was running out.

The professor had begun his lecture, and Travis was logging into his computer. Jack decided he had to try something. As he was clicking away on his laptop, Travis’ busy fingers suddenly went numb and felt as if they were heavy. Thick, almost. He shook out his hands, and continued typing his notes. However, the sensation returned even stronger than before, this time even going so far as to paralyze his entire hand. His fingers began to spasm and wriggle on their own, as if he were a marionette doll with strings attached to his hands. 

He heard faint laughter surrounding him, and a hot breath climbing down his neck. Travis was barely even able to comprehend what was happening, when his feet felt the same tingling and stuffed sensation as his hands. His toes wriggled and cracked in his dress socks, squeaking his loafers on the floor. 

“Mr. Cavendish.” The professor droned from her podium at the forefront of the hall. “Would you care to tell us who the most influential composer was in 1913 Saigon? Since you seem to be bored enough to tap your foot in the back of my class?” Petrified, Travis began to stutter and trip over his answer, before his hands closed his laptop and placed it in his backpack. “Are you going somewhere, Mr. Cavendish?” Travis shook his head in denial before his legs and arms went fully numb and stood up, swinging his bag over his shoulder. 

Travis began to hyperventilate and panic, his body betraying him limb after limb. He walked toward the door, sniffling and restraining back tears. “Mr. Cavendish, if you walk out, don’t bother coming back.” He stopped at the door, a chill ran down his spine. He suddenly cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders back, and turned to the outraged professor.

“Ah, fuck you, you old hag.” Travis spoke with an unnatural Boston accent he didn’t possess. The entire class gasped at the unusual outburst: Travis would never say anything like that! He whipped off his backpack, and began to dump out the contents of his bag, before flipping the professor the bird, and exiting the lecture hall. “I withdraw.” He shouted, and sauntered out. 

It has been three months since Travis was expelled from Berklee. His former friends say he moved out of his apartment after his roommate discovered him fucking his girlfriend one night, sniffing a line of coke off her ass. These days, he spends most of his time with some guy named Davy. He’s covered in tattoos and piercings. He even smokes now! No one knows what got into him, he’s just a regular delinquent now.