Work Of Art

     Edgar pulled his hands out of the square cutout in the cell door and rubbed his red wrists where the cuffs had pinched the skin.  The guard's footsteps retreated until they shuffled to a stop.  A low hum, the locks were released and another cuffed prisoner sauntered into the passageway to fulfill the state's daily mandate; an hour of supervised freedom outside in the yard.

     He studied his likeness in the mirror above the sink as if vanity were a virtue and aging a natural process denied his kind.  Slowly, he soaped his hands, methodically scrubbing to remove the caked black tar from bouncing a basketball on the asphalt in the exercise yard.  With cupped hands, he splashed water into his eyes, then blindly reached for a towel and buried his face in it to block out the world.

     After a minute and with great care, he refolded the towel and arranged it on the rack, perfectly balanced, evenly aligned at each end.  He teased his hair obsessively with a comb, tucked stray strands behind his ears and pulled some forward to his temples, twisting them into curls.  He stepped back and admired himself, turning his head from side to side.  Meticulously, he smoothed the style with his palms and eyed his creation again.  But, this time the reflection in the mirror was not his own.  Dark ringlets dangled over the forehead, replacing the tight bun she had worn throughout the trial, this new look prompted, no doubt, by Cinco de Mayo festivities the day before.  She'd sat primly in the jury box as the verdict was read, lowering her gaze to avoid his mockery.  She'd probably never even picked up a penny from the street without some guilt.

     He twirled a lock of hair around his finger.  "I bet you don't look so prissy now, Isabelle Rodriguez."

     Like a mad barber, he demolished the hairstyle, running his fingers to the ends over and over until it fell in disarray.

     His current painting was not yet completely dry, stacked upright in front of others propped against the wall.  His art occupied every bit of wall space, eight or ten deep, and he rummaged amongst them to find the one he wanted, placed it on the easel and stepped back to appraise his work.  He was energized by the description in the morning newspaper and flattered that the dismemberment of the body rivaled his own creative deeds.

     He picked up a dry brush and, amused, stroked it lovingly over the blonde hair in the portrait.  "It's you, Devin.  Isn't it?"