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The Dying Of The Light

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The sky was fading outside the single window that graced Fox River's Death Row.

From his prison cell, Lincoln Burrows watched the light inside the corridor change. He couldn't see the window itself—none of the prisoners could. It was positioned to suggest without offering, a reward continually withheld. Like the world itself, light trickled by side-effect into the grim lives of the men who waited to be killed.

Lincoln had only twenty days left before his own execution. Forcing himself to think about anything else was a constant struggle, and he wasn't as successful as he would've liked. Sometimes he got angry all over again, remembering the trial and the manufactured evidence that had put him here—set up to die for someone else's crime, and even now he still had no idea who'd been behind it. Other times, he only had the strength to wish it was already over.

He'd made a lot of mistakes in his life. They were a lot easier to remember than the little good he'd done.

He no longer believed that getting Lisa pregnant was a complete mistake, not when they had LJ to show for it. Lincoln wouldn't have traded him for anything. As for Michael… Lincoln used to think Michael was one of his best accomplishments—a genius brother who went to college and became an engineer, despite the fucked-up childhood he and Lincoln had shared. But now Michael was here in Fox River Prison, putting himself in danger and throwing away everything just for some hopeless, insane fantasy about saving Lincoln from the Chair. Lincoln would wind up dying anyway, and Michael would be left behind, stuck in prison for years to come.

God, if he'd known Michael was even thinking about doing something so self-destructive, Lincoln would have killed himself to pre-empt the possibility. Now they were both caught, and Lincoln had to put on a show of support for Michael's escape plan when it was all he could do to survive the waiting that defined this living death.

In the corridor outside Lincoln's cell, the colors had turned rosy. Sunset was coming. Lincoln leaned his head against the bars and sighed, as tired as he'd ever been.

It was all coming to an end for him. He had fewer than three weeks left and no hope of reprieve, and there'd never been a damn thing he or anyone else could do to stop it.

 

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