Hell Friday

the hallway reeks of sweat, cigarette ghosts, last week's arguments. the clock ticks louder than the complaints, and the coffee tastes like an insult to coffee. the public defender sits, her shoulders bent like unpaid rent. she's got eyes full of cases, empty bank accounts, and a pile of pleadings thicker than justice could ever cut through. the hustle and bustle is a dance of poverty and desperation, shoes worn thin, voices pleading for mercy, for rights the brochures promised and always delivered. it's Friday, and hell doesn't take weekends off.