09

Years he had lost to his false conviction. Years he had lost, without his children, without his wife, without his family and friends. Years in a grey cement building with grey walls and grey bars and grey chairs and grey everythings. 

And now, finally, a birthday gift unlike any other for his sixty-fourth year on Earth: his release.

Someone, somewhere, had found evidence exonerating him. 

A vial of evidence in the back of a fridge, long forgotten by forensic investigators. Overlooked by everyone, for twenty-five years. 

And then an intern had found it while cleaning out the fridge. Noticed the date on the sample. Brought it up to his supervisor. 

So simple, so easy. Such a small thing. 

And within it, his freedom.

Oh, he was roiling with rage. Rage at the system for being so sloppy, rage at the prosecution for making him into a monster at the trials, rage at the fact that neither of these people - none of the ones who had forced him into twenty-five long years of depression and fear and anxiety - would ever be punished for their crime. 

He burned with the fury. 

Enough to want to make them pay.