Michael J. Scofield

Under the skin-scorchin' sun of the yard, Michael snapped shut that sketchbook of his. It weren't just him finishin' up, it felt more like a ritualclosin' off a world of make-believe to face the cold, hard truth of gray concrete and barbed wire tangled up like some devil’s cobweb. That autumn breeze didn't bring no mercy, it just dragged the stench of the gutters and the rusty tang of the joint along with it.

On the gravelly dirt, the shadows from the fence sliced the light into jagged stripes, layin' there like scars time forgot to heal.
He didn't look up right away. Michael just stared at his own hands bony fingers stained with dull lead, nails worn down from hours of pourin' his spite onto the paper. When he finally hauled his gaze up, those emerald eyes of his flashed cold and deep as a sinkhole, lockin' dead onto the shrink standin' there. He didn't just sit, he threw his whole weight back into that rickety wooden chair, makin the old timber groan and screech, rippin right through the dead quiet of the yard.

Then, a ghost of a smirk pulled at his mouth not unkind, but steeped in mockery.

"Life, Doc... if you take a real good look through these here bars, it ain't nothin' but a heap of God's own scrap metal."

He didn't give a lick about her shocked face or the fancy, professional comfort she was fixin' to spit out. He just leaned back in, pressin' the sharp lead hard against a fresh page. The pencil went scratch-scratch, frantic and rough, like he was tryin' to tear a hole in the thick air.
For a man rotted out by four walls, there ain't no such thing as a picture-perfect life. In his eyes, the truth only lived in the mucky, blurred-out shadows the raw, beastly parts of a man that the folks outside try to paint over with their pretty, hollow words.