[center][b]Casey Guidry - Road - Molly ([@Weeping Raven]][/b]

[u]- Before - [/u]

With steel binding his wrist and ankles, a guard guided Casey to the visitation room. Other inmates sat at their respective stalls, speaking through wired phones as though they lived in the stone ages. It had been roughly a month since he had last made contact with anyone from the outside world, just now getting said privileges reinstated. He was then seated in a booth, awaiting the arrival of his father who had scheduled visitation. Physically distraught, Casey's father gasped at the sight of what had come of his son. The old man's nerves kicked his arthritis on like a light switch. The poor soul had to use both his hands to hold the phone steady enough to speak through - signaling his son to please pick up communication on the other end. 

Casey reached for the phone, staring through the glass shield as though glimpsing at his future self - Casey being identical to his father. Nevertheless, he didn't speak, just held the phone to his ear in silence as to retaliate his absence. He didn't have much to say, the things going on on the inside were too cruel for civilian ears - especially those bound by blood. He didn't want to worry them, but the cuts and bruises on his face and arms would project otherwise. It was a tough pill to swallow but there was not much of a choice. "Hey son..." his father started, voice lacking the confidence it once had. "...How have you been?" he followed in question. 

"I'm okay dad. How is mom?" Casey returned, trying to sway the conversation away from his current status. Why was this the first time he visited?

"She's well. She's doing real good son. Still playing Bingo on the weekends with the gang, you know your mom," his father answered, giving Casey false optimism - a presentation camouflaging pain with humor. It was clear how much Casey's actions had affected his family. His mother refused to visit despite having every chance to and his father just now managed to get the lawyer to to re-negotiate for those benefits. It was as though they were done with him. 

"And Elizabeth?" 

A sudden stillness froze the old man. He had been unprepared for the inevitable question despite the months he had to make ready. He scratched his cheek, avoiding eye contact as he gathered his thoughts - brain waves shocking him to answer. He gulped noticeably, licking his bottom lip as his red eyes turned back to his son. "Look Casey. Elizabeth...she..." 

"Just tell me dad." 

"She doesn't want to see you son. She's not coming...ever. She's moved on. You have to let her go." 

[u]- Now - [/u]

The lights flickered off as the figure ahead waved in his direction. Casey continued to monitor his surroundings, turning his attention to each side mirror and the rear-view. Nothing was happening, stillness and silence alone did not warrant malice actions or ill intent - but the whole situation still caused uneasiness. That as it may, the distance between the individuals made it difficult to scan the girl for weapons or items of value . Regardless of her actions, one person would not get in the way of his destination, so onward. 

Slowly, Casey started to shorten the distance between the two, driving under five miles per hour with a pistol clutched in his right hand. As the car rolled down the road, Casey reached a distance which gave a face to the figure. She was young, pale, brunette and slim. Teenage years at most, probably right out of high school Casey guessed. He stopped the car and parked maybe twenty feet away, staring through the glass that separated them. Again he glanced at all the mirrors, turning in every direction to see if there was anyone else around - no one. 

Pulling the emergency brake, Casey opened the car door and stepped out of the vehicle. He hid the gun behind the door frame to not disclose his trump card. "Are you alone?!" he asked loud enough for her to hear over the running engine. "You look too young to be out here all alone..." he added, trying to catch her off guard with statements that answered his own questions. Casey was not a psychological genius or therapeutic expert that could dissect lies or truths, but he had been locked away with enough liars to know the gestures of deception and those of candor. The cards were on her table now. [/center]