Rehabilitated

By Faris Gladias

Raheem only wants a second chance, but it might already be too late. Once a happy child, he grew up around the wrong crowd and got involved in drug dealing. It started with juvenile offenses, but now, hes a man, and prison is the home he must get used to in order to survive, with nothing but memories of his mother to keep him going.

Then, one day, a strange letter arrives. It seems Raheem has a daughter. The letter is anonymous, and he cant be sure of its truthyet, he feels the need to investigate, and the only way to do so is on the outside. Raheem outsmarts an entire prison in order to escape, and so begins his mission to find his daughter and become a better man.

However, life on the outside comes with responsibilities he never expected. He and his friends are soon embroiled in a terrorist plot that could level all of Washington, D.C. To earn his fresh slate, Raheem must find his daughter and stop the enemy from murdering thousands of people, all while evading the law. Is redemption possible, or is Raheem too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781452531151

Faris Gladias

Faris Gladias is a teen author currently studying in Melbourne Australia. Rehabilitated is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2015 Faris Gladias.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-3114-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3115-1 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/01/2015

CONTENTS

Fireplace

The Perfect Opportunity

Restless

Uncoordinated

Escapee

Unfinished Business

Trapped Again

Two Faced

Robbery

Lights Out

Routine

Revenge

Eye for an Eye

Karma

It Gets Worse before It Gets Better

Recovery

Kind Gesture

Plan B

Old Friend

Reunion at Last

Backup

Warning

Haywire

Blood and Bones

Gasping

Alexander High

Collision

Hero

FIREPLACE

My mother sighed heavily, her voice rich with sadness as she stared at the fireplace. Her eyes welled up heavy with tears; they looked as though they might burst any second now. I was hoping and praying to God that she would give me another chance, begging silently that the world would give me a second chance.

I felt my arms get pinned down by two officers, one on each arm. Their grip was painfully tight as though they thought I might escape, like I did from juvenile only a week ago. I was a criminal, after all. My heart sank. I’d never get a chance to make things right. She had already called the cops. My eyes started to well up too.

My mother looked up at me and said, Raheem, my dear son, look, and pointed at the fire, which greedily devoured the wood to satisfy its never-ending hunger.

I lowered my gaze, not because she pointed at the fireplace but because I was ashamed to look at her sullen face, which was once shining radiantly with beauty. I stared at the fireplace. Its glow gave a comforting vibe to the rugged old living room. So beautiful, she said, staring at the fire.

Did I detect the beginning of a smile on her lips? Perhaps she was thinking about old memories. Happy memories, like when the two of us would curl up together next to the fire on cold nights, eating instant noodles and watching a month’s worth of America’s Got Talent on the VCR all night long, sharing jokes and funny stories. Then again, it could always be the shadows that were dancing around the ceiling and walls, distorting my vision.

This fireplace, my mother said, pausing for a second, thinking about how to deliver her speech. This fireplace has always provided me with its warmth and filled this house with its comforting glow, so long as I feed it firewood every time it gets low. One day, I will no longer be able to provide the fire its much-needed wood.

She paused again, but this time it was to breathe. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose and out through her mouth. She opened her eyes and continued talking. The fire will diminish into flickers, then to embers, and finally it will be reduced to nothing more than ashes. Cold, heartless, and dead to the world.

My mother was sobbing now, her tears leaving warm, sticky trails of sadness as they rolled down her left cheek. I was terrible in every subject at school except for one. I always got straight As in science; I loved biology in particular. I was fascinated by the human body, and I read somewhere that when the first few tears drop down from the left eye, it means the body is in pain. My mother was in pain because of me. I started crying as well. I don’t know why, but I just did. Maybe it was because I hadn’t cried in ages. Either way, it felt good. It felt as though I’d taken a break after carrying a mountain for years, a burden off my shoulder.

My mother started talking again. Her eyes sparkled with hope, and her voice confirmed this feeling. She was speaking clearer now too. I hadn’t seen her like this in a long time. But, she said, deep inside those ashes is a single ember. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to start a whole new fire. That ember is you. You can survive this, Raheem. It’s just a bump in your life. Believe in yourself, okay? my mother said, looking at me.

My heart was racing. I wanted to run over to her and hug her and kiss her forehead and hand, tell her I was sorry for everything and that I want to go back to school and do something with my life. I wanted to let her know that I wasn’t incorrigible and that I could change.

That’s enough, a gruff voice barked from beside me. I felt myself getting dragged away. I wanted to scream wait, but the word died at my throat. I tried to break free, but the officers tightened their grip.

Change yourself, she said just as the police van doors slammed shut. Raheem is a good kid; he just needs guidance.

I heard my mother harping about me to the officers from the back of the police van. Two more doors slammed shut, and the sirens blared into life. There was a faint click beneath me as the van was put into gear. It lurched forwards and drove off with me in the back. That was the last time I heard my mother’s sweet voice.

I woke up breathing heavily, my chest cold from sweat. I’ve been having dreams like this lately, dreams of my previous life, if you’d call it living. I was only sixteen at the time I was arrested and sent to jail. I’m eighteen years old now.

I sat upright on the side of the bed and stared at the fat cunt snoring next to me. Perhaps if I had a shank, I could get rid of him and get sent to an isolation cell. I pushed the thought aside and got up.

I made no attempt to be incognito as I shuffled to the toilet to take a leak. The smell of urine, shit, and vomit wafted into the air as I opened the lid to the toilet. I can hold it, I thought and shut it back tight.

The water from the washbasin was cool and refreshing as I washed my face. I rested my elbows on the windowsill and stared out the window. The first few rays of sunshine were slicing through the darkness, in the far left corner of the compound.

I watched as a bus came into view. It drove up the hill of tarmac and prison guards. They put a hill there on purpose. It’s so we couldn’t see out and people couldn’t see in. They treated us like unwanted pests.

I clenched my fists and grimaced as I saw the jailkeeper laughing. He had one hand to his ear, probably chatting with a friend. He was holding a cup of coffee in his other hand as if he was strolling in a park. He was the superintendent of this correctional facility, but the inmates just called him the jailkeeper.

I breathed in through my nose and out my mouth. You’ll get your revenge when the time comes, I said to myself. It was a meditation technique I was taught by my mother, called channeling your emotions. I walked over to my bed and flopped down on my pillow face first. I was woken up by the familiar sound of batons banging on cell bars. I must have dozed off, because I was still head first in my pillow. I was used to it though, the banging every day at precisely 7:30 a.m. It was routine. You get used to routine after a year. A year after that, it gets quite annoying. Two months later, you’re planning your escape, so you embrace the routine, but most important, you use it to your advantage. Well, I did, anyway.

I’d been very observant these past few days, looking for a loophole in the system to further my plan’s probability of working. I was very sentimental and intuitive, unlike Fat Albert here, who lived for the sweet sound of batons slamming on cell doors so he could scamper away to his precious breakfast.

His name was Logan, Logan Lester. He was a bit nutty, but I guess that’s what happens to someone when he murders his wife by accident and gets blamed for it.

He used to be a hardworking man, just married to a decent-looking wife. Two years down the road, they already had their first baby son. They named him Jonathan. Long story short, Logan accidentally stabbed both his wife and son in his sleep.

Apparently, he has terrible nightmares, which cause him to go on rampages during his sleep. Anyway, the cops came and took him away. He went to court, pleading innocent, but the judge said he was guilty. He lost the case and was sentenced to two lifetimes in prison.

That’s when he lost some of his marbles. Logan finally broke down completely when he was kidnapped and raped inside the prison by two older gay men. He’d been really edgy ever since.

The banging stopped and was replaced by over thirty cell windows clicking open almost simultaneously. They used electromagnets here because they were impossible to bust open, and they can’t be picked. Logan got up and hurriedly stuck his hands into the window. His hands were cuffed by two guards. Hey, you’re up next, one of the guards barked. I didn’t