This time I could only see one thing: Insanity.
I felt oddly awake, as if someone had finally opened my eyes to the nut job my mother truly was. Her hands were gripped in tight fists at her side, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. A drop of blood, squeezed out from one of the open cracks on her hand, dropped with a tiny splash to the ground. As I watched, I realized that she wasn’t just swaying. She was moving. Her hands would slightly lift, then drop. Her head would lean to one side, turn to the other. Her eyes widened, then drooped.
Even though I knew better, I let my eyes glance to look at the space in front of her. Something in me expected to see another person standing there, silently joining her in this strange, silent conversation. Only the cold wall stood in front of her.
An hour passed. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She looked exhausted. Even in the darkness of the cell I could see the bags grow darker under her eyes. Her shoulders slumped, her wrists heavy at her sides as if weights had been tied to them and forgotten. Her lips quivered as she mouthed words. She whispered the hushed words over and over, sound never escaping her dry lips.
A sob suddenly escaped her throat. It was barely audible, easily missed if I hadn’t been watching her so intently. A choked cry of utter pain. Loss. Agony. It ended in a low growl of deep anger that continued for a solid minute. Then she stopped. Stopped moving, stopping talking, even stopped breathing as her entire body seemed to freeze into dead stone.
As if someone had slapped her across the face, my mother suddenly came to. Turning her head sharply, her eyes met mine. I could see the shine of tears in her tired eyes, glowing in the dim light of the cell. We didn’t speak. I just watched as she finally up-rooted her bare feet from the cold ground and crawled into bed next to my father.
Snatching up my notebook, I crawled down as soon as I heard her breathing even out into the slow, long draws of sleep. I crept across to the door then flopped down on my stomach. My shoe laces were already knotted together, the note already tied securely to the end. Without waiting, I threw the note out the door.
A minute later I felt the tug.
Reeling it in, I nearly ripped the paper as I pulled the note open, barely scanning my question that I had scribbled on the page.
What is a bird?
In careful curves, the returned note simply read:
Free.
I read the word again. I let myself whisper it, carefully pronounce it. It rolled off of my tongue, tickling my lips and disappearing into the murmur of the prison night. Something inside me longed for that word. I had never felt this way before. Now I couldn’t seem to feel anything else.
Orrin, what if I inherit this madness? They are both mad. Will I be too?
Orrin wrote back quickly, his hand-writing slurred as if he too felt the need for the answer that was pounding inside of me.
You are who you are, Millie. No one decides who you are but yourself. If you want to be mad like them, then be mad. But if you want to be different, please, be different.
But what will I become? I wrote. What is going to happen to me?
I swore I could hear the sigh of someone just down the walk. Then the echo of a light chuckle. The shoelace tugged.
Dear, that is a question every child your age has asked since the dawn of time. Life is ahead of you. What this Nation is doing... Something was scribbled out, impossible to read past the angry dark slashes. They lock away the people and make them become the criminals they so fear. I do not know what you will become. But I pray to God that you don’t allow them to decide your fate.
I felt confused suddenly. What do you mean? What is the Nation doing?
There is a lot you don’t know yet, Millie. Orrin’s handwriting slowed, curving carefully as he emphasized his words. There is a lot to learn. Remember everything your schooling has taught you. But remember: To every truth, there are a million untold truths.
Do I get to meet you before I leave? I wrote it carefully, trying to copy his perfect curving letters. I hoped that he understood the emphasis, the meaningful question of my words.
It took longer this time to feel the tug. Pulling it in, I carefully opened the note, my breath held.
Millie, believe me, I would love to meet you. You have become like a daughter to me in here. I lost my boys, and now I am losing you. But I would rather you leave with the memory of me as this fishing pseudo father of yours than the balding old man with nothing memorable about him. Can you do that?
I could feel sudden tears of disappointment sting my eyes. I had hoped that Orrin would instantly say yes. I could see us in my mind, finally meeting just as I left to take my Exam, his eyes proud, his smile broad and reassuring. It was true what he had written. Orrin truly had become like a father to me in this prison.
I could look. I could find him. He was only a cell or two away. It wouldn’t be hard to discover which man he was. I just needed to see him, to know he was real. To know that even after I left, Orrin would exist. I knew though, even as the desperate thoughts flooded my mind, that it wouldn’t happen.
His words, speaking in my mind, repeated over and over. Was his sentencing all truly just a big mistake? Or was he lying, knowing that the truth of him also being a monster would only chase away this young girl he had mentally adopted as his own? I forced the thoughts away. Orrin had never written anything to me that seemed like a lie. I believed him.
I needed to believe him.
I had to.
Orrin, I wrote carefully, Why don’t you fight it? Why don’t you try to prove your innocence?
I tried, once. He wrote back. I had found out that after my sentencing, there were more murders in the town. The handwriting suddenly smudged. I stared at it a moment, confused at the strange spray of wet pencil scratch. My finger lightly touched it, its surface still warm. It was a tear. My wife had been killed. My older son too. They had been killed the same way as all the other murders and I was miles away, locked in this cell, unable to protect them. I tried to use it as evidence that I was innocent. But the authorities didn’t care. They deemed it as a copy-cat killing, and denied my appeal request. I search the archives but I never could find my youngest boy who had survived. He had vanished. He was gone. I had to give up.
Seeing that Orrin had given up felt like a slap across my face. My cheek began to throb, suddenly reminding me of Carl.
But it is the truth. They have to listen to the truth. I wrote back. I felt feverish, my hand pressing the pencil so hard into the page that it tore through and scratched loudly against the ground. Glancing up to my parents, I caught my breath. They didn’t even stir.
Orrin seemed to tug on the shoelace as soon as it landed. I pulled it back in and read the scribbled words, spotted with more tears.
I had no truth to return to. Here is your first lesson outside of the books, Millie: In Prison Nation, the truth can’t set you free.
| | |
Orrin hadn’t responded any more to me that night. I tried. I threw the note out and waited, but no tug responded. I read his last message over and over, after finally climbing into my bunk. My eyes ached from squinting in the dark. Whether it was the intense slant of his painful writing, the splattering of tears, or something else, I couldn’t bring myself to stop reading.
I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, my hands still painfully clutched the paper. The doors hadn’t opened yet. Grateful that my inner clock was finally working again, I tucked the note tightly into my notebook then climbed down, stretching my fingers out painfully. Stepping in front of the mirror, I threw on my clean clothes, breathing in the smell of the soap I hated so much. I finally stopped to look at my cheek.
It was still red, but luckily had not bruised. I raised a fingertip to lightly touch it and winced as a sharp bolt of pain shot through my cheek and down my jaw. Cranking on the water, I felt the sudden sting of ice cold water pelt out of the tap. I bent down and splashed it over and over on my face, grateful for the coldness that shocked me awake. Befor
e long, my face was numb. My entire face was red as I looked back into the mirror, the sting on my cheek masked by the cold shock of water.
I felt fully awake for the first time in days. Moving to stand near the door, I let my body lean against the wall as I waited for the buzz and the door to slide open. It seemed to take forever. I could see the glow of morning light shining in the thick window. Inmates in cells nearby moved around, prepping themselves for the day ahead.
My parents were still asleep. Frozen in time, always in the same position, they looked like stone etched statues. Monuments left to lie forever in that small bunk as a cold reminder that they did, in fact, exist. I turned away, focusing my eyes on the door.
It finally slid open.
As I hurried down the walk, I could feel my stomach growl in hunger. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. I didn’t have time to go to the cafeteria though. Luckily, most days a cart was left along the wall in the Commons, equipped with a small pile of old fruit and stale rolls. Someone would roll it in before lights on, and its stale stockpile quickly disappeared before the first rush of inmates emptied the Commons.
Pushing my way toward the cart, I grabbed a crusty roll and ducked away as those behind me reached for their share. The roll was stale, obviously left over from some meal the day before. I forced myself to swallow it, feeling it stick in my throat. After a few hard swallows, I finally felt it move down.
As I hurried away, angry voices started to rise behind me. Someone shouted something about the food. Followed quickly with the dull thud as a fist made contact with a body. Before I knew it, more voices rose, screaming at each other as the sound of bodies slamming into each other grew louder. The pound of heavy boots was the last thing I heard as I ducked into the doorway and disappeared down the hall.
I didn’t pause to look back.
I had only been down this hall one other time in my life. One year ago, almost exactly to the date. I had requested to pull out of the schooling program and continue as an independent study. Before they could grant me the request though, I had to meet with the Warden.
His office tucked neatly away at the end of this hall. My parents had come with me that time. Sitting before the man, his large body barely tucked behind the small wooden desk, had been intimidating. I had been grateful that my parents sat on either side of me, feeling as if their presence had been some sort of protection against the unknown.
It seemed that most of the citizens who worked in this prison were bored, their eyes almost always hooded, a yawn always present on their face. That was the Warden. I had heard he was once a Marine. Special Ops. Whatever that meant. Once the Nation had built the Wall, the push for Marines diminished. The rest of the world had decided to leave the Nation alone. The need for armored grunt men became almost inexistent. I had always wondered if the bored look on the Warden’s chiseled face was regret.
He had carelessly warned me that if I failed to accomplish the schooling, I might not be allowed out on my eighteenth birthday. Then, without waiting for a promise or any questions, he had stamped my request and sent me away.
My eyes trailed down the hall into the darkness, knowing his office waited beyond. That day, a year ago, I had walked away with my parents on either side. My mother had jabbered excitedly about my future, my father silently smiling as he kept his eyes glued ahead.
No one else stood in the hall today.
I finally reached the door.
As I stood in front of it, I felt my stomach tangle up. This was the test that would help decide the rest of my life. Would I go free? Would I fail and be labeled? My hand hovered over the metal handle, suddenly scared to twist it and walk in. My confidence had fled me, hiding away in a place I knew I would never dare to go and retrieve it.
A feeling rose inside me, longing for my mother’s laughter and my father’s presence. It had always been there. Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. The feeling disappeared, escaping into the fog hiding in the corners of my mind until it was gone.
Knees shaking, throat tight, I finally twisted the handle.
9
“Millicent 942B?”
I stood in the doorway, my hands clasped tightly together. “Yes.” My voice shook. I cleared my throat, trying to chase away the shake that spread like fire over my entire body. It wouldn’t leave.
“Come in and stand on the line.”
I watched my feet as I quickly walked in and made my way to the yellow line painted on the cement floor. The door swung shut behind me, clicking loudly. With my toes carefully touching the line, I finally dared to look up.
In front of me, sitting in a row behind a simple metal table, five people stared back. A single light hung from the center of the ceiling, casting strange shadows across the room and darkening the faces of the panel. Letting my eyes adjust, I watched them nervously as they took me in.
Reverend Smitson sat at the left end of the table. My family never attended church, but I had seen him before when I walked down the prison hallways. He had his own small chapel near the psychiatric wing. Sometimes I would slow as I passed, listening to his booming voice as he preached about God’s love and mercy to his small congregation. Barely anyone, it seemed, bothered to publicly practice religion in here anymore. The few who chose to attend always had to travel in tight groups, protecting themselves from the many inmates who were intolerant of faith.
Faith, it seemed, was a dying trend.
Reverend Smitson watched me, his brow knitted and his lips parted as if ready to launch into another ‘Praise the Lord and God’s great Nation’ tirade. His skin was dark, nearly black in the dim light of the exam room. It shone as if polished. He was dressed in his usual black, a strip of white tightly wrapped around his slim neck.
Next to the Reverend sat Dr. Eriks. Her lips were pursed, the spray of lines drawing my eyes in. Even though I hated seeing her sit there, her dull eyes smugly watching my every move, I felt a strange comfort in seeing those lines.
Warden Binns sat in the center. His stomach had loosened since the last time I had seen him and his dark hair, neatly cropped, had new sprinkles of gray. The Warden’s hat sat neatly on the table, his fingers occasionally reaching out to lightly stroke its worn rim. Crammed awkwardly in his chair, his face echoed the angst of being forced to sit.
To his right sat Judge Wood. I had never seen him before. I only knew it was him because of his nose.
A few years back there had been a large commotion in the Commons. It was so loud, roaring so thoroughly through the cement walls and closed doors of the prison, that I had heard it clear in my cell. Out of dumb curiosity I had crept down the hall and peeked into the crowded Commons. Inmates were standing around, laughing and cheering as they happily clapped one another on the shoulder. It was a strange sight to see.
One standing near the door was talking rather loudly. I barely had to lean in to hear what had happened. A man had been in court, fighting against a charge of Arson 1. Even though he had evidence proving his non-guilty plea, there had been one small stipulation that had managed to sentence him. Judge Wood had slapped him with a fifteen year sentence.
In rage, the man had jumped the table and reached the Judge before the guards had a chance to react. In one swift swing, his fist made contact with the Judge’s nose. It had shattered instantly. Everyone in the Commons cheered on the man, who was now sentenced to life with no parole.
Judge Wood’s nose now sat severely crooked on his chubby face. I could hear the soft wheeze of breath as he sucked air in and out. Everything about him was chubby. His sausage fingers tapped the table mindlessly, dimpled knuckles bending and popping. He licked his bloated lips, his bulging eyes blinking slowly.
The last person at the table had to be Oscar Ramos. He was small, his shaggy brown hair oiled down in an obvious attempt to better his dirty appearance. Everything about him seemed oddly dusty. Even though his clothes were cleaned and pressed, they still held the worn look of a farmer. One hand nervously brushed across his
mouth, his knuckles pressing hard into his thin lips.
The Warden cleared his throat. “942B, are you ready?”
Licking my lips, I forced myself to nod. The Warden glanced at the others, then looked back to me. “Begin.”
I shut my eyes a moment, focusing on the memorized words I had practiced over and over the last few days. Looking them in the face was too intimidating. I could feel their focus on me, waiting. Flicking my eyes back open, I focused on the table. I hoped they would accept this as a fair trade.
“In the late 20th century, the United States of America stood as a strong force in the modern world. With allies scattered across the globe, the U.S. held a power that other nations could only dream of. But within the country, they were weak. National debt was rising. The very citizens tore at each other worse than any war ever could.” I took a deep breath. My voice was coming out strong, clear and sure of its words. Inside, I shook harder than ever.
“Crime rates were rising on a crazy upward climb. Law offices sprouted up, taking advantage of the accused to rake in money that should have been going back to the government. By the dawn of the 21st century, it became the norm to sue instead of settle. And crimes still kept climbing. The country was bankrupt.
“The U.S. government finally realized that their nation was crumbling. They formed a plan to save it. Discarding the cursed name, our country renamed itself the Nation. A strong, powerful name, lacking any shame of the past.
“Changes began with simple measures: guaranteeing harsher punishment for crime. The Nation hoped this would deter potential criminals. It worked for a short time, but soon that plan showed its weakness. Lawyers and juries still leant a soft ear to the lies of the criminals. Twisting the truth and playing on the selected jurors’ weaknesses still enabled the criminals to go free.
“That was when the final laws were put into motion. The Nation discarded the practice of law offices. Along with that, all trials were only conducted as bench trials, leaving the well-trained and fair Judge to determine the sentence without having to deal with simple-minded jury members and lawyers.”
Prison Nation Page 9