Seventeen days until his parole hearing. He had seventeen days to hold on and make sure he flew on the straight and narrow and then he had the chance to go home and see his wife, his child, his brothers.

He scrubbed at his hands furiously, teeth bared as he struggled to remove every last trace of the blood on his fingers. The clumps of hair on his beater weren't going anywhere any time soon either. He'd spent what felt like hours pacing his little corner of the world like a caged wild cat, throwing himself at the bars every time anyone or anything came too close but really it only took ten minutes, fifteen at the most to calm himself down enough to function. It was then that he noticed the blood on his hands and clothes and he stared like an idiot for a heartbeat then moved to the tiny sink in the corner to wash up.

He'd been getting dressed after his shower when he'd heard them behind him. He didn’t know how many there were until he'd been set upon, meaty fists slamming into his body and then the jeering had started. There were five of them to begin with, two on him and three throwing insults instead of punches and catcalling as they pulled at his clothes, hands slipping beneath the fabric and scratching at his skin. He had always heard about such things happening within the prison's walls but it had never happened to him in all his five years inside and fuck it, it wasn't about to happen now.

His hands shook as he continued to scrub, pink swirling down the drain amongst the pale brown water. It was an accident. He hadn't meant to get so carried away, he'd only wanted to scare them off, make them leave him alone and know that he wasn't to be messed with but things had escalated and… and..

He scrubbed harder, teeth grinding as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He couldn't breathe when he thought about what had just happened and what had almost happened. His lungs felt like they were lined with chalk and each breath rattled out of him with a sickening wheeze.

The memory of grabbing his attacker's head in his big hands and slamming it into the wet tiles of the bathroom until it split like a melon flashed in front of his mind's eye and he gagged. He avoided the mirror like the plague and kept his head down, bile rushing up his throat and into the grubby sink. He couldn’t bare to look at himself.

He'd killed a man. A man who was attempting to rape him, yes, but still another human being.

"Forgive me," he whispered, face upturned toward the sky, "God, forgive me.."

He sagged into the small space between the toilet and wall and folded himself up as tight as he could. No small feat for a man his size. His head lolled back against the wall and he sat there in the dark corner of his cell a changed man. A broken man.

He was sure he wasn't going to get out in another seventeen days, not anymore.

"You've been a bad, bad little boy, Sanders," the guard taunted from the cell door. He kept his head down even as the door slid open and the tiny space was filled with prison staff. The cuffs were cold as they snapped shut around his wrists and he was hauled to his feet.

"It was an accident," he mumbled bleakly. He didn't bother fighting them as they threw him out onto the catwalk, banging his head on the door on the way through. Blood dripped down his temple.

"Yeah," one of them laughed. "So was that."

He blinked through the blood and took in all the rushing colors around him. Suddenly everything looked a little greyer around the edges and the jeering calls from the cells they passed faded to a dull roar.

No, he wasn't getting out of here anymore. Not for a long time.