“I am so tired of this notion of choice.” But there is no weariness in his voice. Jack is resolute—absolute—and his complexion ruddy with frustration.

“Why tired?”

“Look at me! Look at me.”

“You look fine to me. Healthy. You have a nice life here.”

“Here. I can’t leave. I have a nice life in this little cell block that the state of Georgia thinks I’m safe in. Don’t you get it, Fleeting? I’m safe here, but only from myself. They have to protect everyone from me! You just don’t get that, you harmless… where is the choice, the decision? I’m insane! Written off. Put away. Done.”

“Jack, we both know you’re not insane.” She sets the notebook down, puts it aside. She leans across the desk—unorthodox, she knows. But in folding her fingers together, she convinces herself. The interlacing of digits is a physical contemplation. He sees for the first time that she is really on his side. “Somehow, you’re going to be okay.”

“I will kill again, Clarrisa. You and I both know that.”

“To be honest, Jack: I’m not so sure about that.”

Read the whole thread: No Angel Crosses Water

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