"Is this it? Is this really fuckin' it? Is this all your life is? Can you not see it? Can you really, truly not feel it deep within? Like a fuckin' bomb ready to explode?! Ready to blow the roof off your past and leave it in pieces. On the sidewalk of your broken dreams and promises. With all the other shit you wish you could change but can't. With the lost loves and lovers, and all the worthless shit you thought you cared about.

Because if you don't look forward, what then? What becomes of this life you've been blessed with? Hmm? You think someone else will do it for you? Some magical fuckin' fairy will drop down into the miserable shitstain you call a living and mop it all up for you? Clean up all your mistakes and leave behind a nice little bed of roses?

It ain't gonna happen. There's no fuckin' roses. There's no helping hand. All you got is you. What you have to work with is right there at the end of your sleeves. Your past is done. You fucked it away. You bent over and gave away your power. You became another cocksucker of a sheep pretending to be a wolf. And deep down, you can't stand it. You can't face yourself honestly and accept your bullshit. And that's why you're here. Again. Running from your mistakes and hiding from who you're truly capable of being.

So when you walk through those doors, have a good hard think about what you truly want from life. What it is that you want to create. What kind of legacy you want to leave behind. How you want others to percieve you and talk about you when you're gone. But most of all, how you want to see yourself. Because when all the crowds disappear, when the lights dim and the noise of the world fades, all you have is you. Your own fat fuckin' face staring back at you. You answer to yourself and nobody else..."

The federal agent stood up and walked toward the door. Just another day in paradise, ranting and raving about God know's what. Maybe he was still stuck in the misery of his wife leaving him. Or the pressure of the myriad of dead bodies piling up on his streets, and the ever growing paperwork stacking on his desk.

Or maybe he actually gave a damn. Maybe he was one of the good guys. His aggressive language the only way he knew how to express the bubbling emotions within. His passion to help others. And the frustration of seeing so many fall into the same traps. The self made snares. Or, maybe he was just as corrupt as the rest of them.

"So Bertha, please, make some fuckin' changes. Whoring yourself out to strangers ain't gonna get you peace. If I see you back here again, I'm locking you away for good. If you can't get your shit together then you may aswell be in here with these other no lifers. The other shit eaters that didn't make it. Now please, get the fuck out of my office, before I change my mind."

The door was held open for her. She'd been picked up time and time again by the same guy, the badge holding the door. But he was more than that. More than a number on a bit of metal connected to a system drowning in crime just as bad, if not worse, than what was happening street level. He actually cared. And that little slither of compassion, that fiery heart, may just be what she needed. It may just be enough, even if only to ignite a single spark.

She looked up as she stepped out into the fresh open space. It was different. Something seemed different. The birds flying past, ducking and swooping through the street that was roaring with activity before her. The shine of the sun overhead, warming her neck and face. And the aroma in the air. Beyond the smell of car fumes and food something was lingering. Possibly the sweet scent of change.

Then her eyes saw it. Her chariot. Bertha took one last look around as she wrapped the large coat around her otherwise scantily clad body. She then closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, letting the moment wash over her. As she opened them again, she slowly stepped down the stairs and made her way towards the car, taking her heart warming smile with her.

As soon as she was in, she glanced over at Louis. He greeted her with a smirk. Maybe she had come away anew. Prison had a way of doing that. Sometimes bringing out a new side. Sometimes squashing one. Always character defining. Or let's be honest, maybe she was just happy to be out and spirited to fuck shit up again. Joy was had, regardless.

And maybe that's just it. To find some kind of enjoyment in it all, no matter the opinion of others or the trail of destruction left behind. Because we were all the same. Fuck ups. And sometimes it hurt someone else, just as much as it did our pride, our ego, our ambitions. But to start anew. To accept the past and live freely without demons in our ear. Not a bad start to the day. If only for that day.