by Gabriel Love
I owe it to her to get the truth.
He deserves a quick death for his crime.
I think time in solitary will do me some good.
Or destroy me.
Either way, I’ll be closer to heaven or hell and will be better able to understand the true nature of the horror that is solitary confinement. That’s what the whole project was about, anyway. I just never planned to go to such extreme lengths.
I guess I’m kind of lucky Phillip showed his true colors. At least in that I saw this as an option when before I would never have even considered something so far fetched.
The march up to the stone building feels like death. I’m just... empty. So totally devoid of emotion; be it fear, elation, sorrow, or joy.
I just... am.
I exist.
This moment is happening, but there’s a sense that it’s false, that it can’t be happening, like the moment you discover you’re in a dream, but you’re still powerless to change the course of events.
I’m safe from the hell that is Philip, but in reality, I’m trading one hell for another. Devil and the deep blue sea, as it were. I’d rather drown than die by the hands of evil that robs me of the choice.
This will progress with me in control.
Still, with all that circling in my mind, I find myself unable to face the reality of the crazy adventure I’m about to embark on.
In Parker’s office I’m left with a white set of pants and a shirt. It’s the outfit that the mentally anguished patients use. It’s designed to distinguish them from general pop.
For me, I guess it’s a warning of sorts that I’m not what I appear.
When I’m changed and have bagged my scant belongings; my car keys, cell phone, shoes, clothing, and with them my sense of self.
When I open the door, Parker eyes me and I’m very aware I’m not wearing a bra. The urge to cross my arms is powerful, but I’m not about to show discomfort with such a telling gesture. It’s not like I’m not proud of my body.
“Chains?" I ask, dreading the next step.
“No." Parker is firm and I’m relieved, though I’m careful not to let my expression reflect that.
I can hardly breathe as Parker escorts me to my new space while speaking to me in a quiet, reserved tone that betrays his worry.
“If at any point you feel the urge to self harm, I’ve placed an emergency prepay phone in your cell that can only dial me. You’re to speak to me only in regards to release and the terms of your confinement.”
I nod.
I’d like to think that it’s not a possibility, but I know better than to claim I know what solitary will do to my mental state. People stronger than I have been reduced to actions I’ll never understand because of solitary.
I’m not special.
I have limits.
Boundaries.
My own host of issues.
I’m confident that this experience can tear me down, but I’m equally open to the possibility it’ll make me stronger.
Parker is rambling on as if certain I’m hanging on his every word. I guess I should be. It’s important, after all.
“I think you know what you’re getting into, though. As you requested, I’m allowing you a voice recorder. This and the phone are the only things you will have on hand. I’ll check on you intermittently as will Mr. Kingston. I’ve requested that he meet with you once a day to evaluate your mental state. However, given his current backlog, I’m not sure that’s in the realm of possibility.”
Of course. He’s making sure he covers every base in case something happens. It’s smart to keep tabs on me to the best of their abilities, especially considering the rate of self-harm in solitary inmates. While I’m obviously being given special treatment - like an escape route in the form of a phone and a voice recorder - I need to be able to record observations. I need to be able to tap out if I start tumbling down the rabbit hole.
When we stop, my heart lurches in the first out of place physical sensation I’ve had since walking in here. The door is a gate to hell and I’ve come agreeably.
I have definitely lost it.
Still, there’s no backing out now.
Not that I would if I could.
I lift my chin and walk through the open door. Inside, I can only describe the sparse space as a box. I’m enclosed by four cement walls devoid of windows, warmth, sunshine, or fresh air. As soon as the door slams behind me I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I spin, staring at the faceless door.
Uncertainty bleeds through my pores and I drop onto the small steel bed. A glance to my right leaves me feeling a tiny bit less alone. On the other side of the cement is Bannish. So close, yet so far away.
I reach out and press my palm to the chilly wall. Something within me echoes, a hollow, lost feeling that quickly engulfs me. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. My ears desperately search for some sound, no matter how tiny. As I lower my forehead to my knees, I feel hot tears slip down my cheeks.
Time passes, but I know it only because I know that time never stands still. That’s impossible. But there are no cues. No darkness, no sunrise, no visual or physical evidence of time exists here. The temptation to pick up the phone and play or call Parker just to hear the voice of another is almost overwhelming.
But I won’t do that. If I’m to truly understand, I can’t cheat and satiate the boredom that’s rising in me like a tide. Instead, I stare at the walls, memorizing every divot and spot. I study the floor, seeing stains here and there. I fold my blanket, make my bed, mess it up again and make it once more.
But mostly, I wait.
I wait for an end to this misery.
I wait for something within me to snap, react, or something.
I wait for some inner voice to speak up.
But silence is all I feel.
I need to feel something, so I stand and begin to do squats until my legs burn and tremble. It’s heavenly to feel something, even pain. So I decide to do push-ups next. Placing both hands on the edge of my bed, I stretch out and begin rising and lowering until my arms give out and I crumble to the floor, trying to rub the pain from my limbs.
And I pace. Back and forth. It’s five steps to the wall, five steps back, and I count each one. Ten fades to fifteen, fifteen leads to twenty five and my brain zones out.
It’s as if my mind leaves the tiny room to think of other things.
Andrea.
I’m back at home.
Andrea’s got a grin from ear to ear as we cling to the tire swing. We’d just turned thirteen the week before and both realized we missed some of our more childish things; like the swing.
So we’d promised to make time to just be kids again.
Despite her obvious joy there was a mutual melancholy between us. A sense of loss and the end of something. And no matter how I tired to convince myself that the best was yet to come, I couldn’t shake that tiny shred of sadness.
Somehow the day slipped away and we wound up in a gently swaying tire, silent as the wind passed us by.
When she spoke my thoughts echoed her words and a hollowness within me reverberated the question.
“Have you ever just felt... sad?”
Despite knowing exactly what she was saying, I felt the need to deny it. I‘m not really sure why. “Nope.” Her expression changed then, and I saw her staring hard at me. She knew the truth. I know she knew, but she didn’t challenge me.
It was as if she recognized it was something we shouldn’t talk about. Couldn’t talk about. Such things were better kept inside.
So we began to talk about boys until Mom called us in for dinner.
And at that table with my family I felt the closest to whole. Like I belonged. Like this was the life I was meant to have. But still, some whisper of sorrow crowded the edges of that joy and forced it to shrink bit by bit.
My eyes focus back on the tiny room and heartache overcomes me.
I’d give anything to be b
ack there.
All of me wants to go back to that day and relive it just one more time. I realize I’ve counted four thousands steps and I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to call up old memories. I need to relive them. It feels like they’re the only thing that will keep me sane in here.
Andrea guides me though the past, our whispers about first kisses, first sexual encounters, firsts that weren’t important. That shouldn’t have been seen as important.
When she’d tell me she aced biology even though she was a freshman and it was a collage prep class, I’d called her a nerd.
I’d give anything to take it back and push her into the things she loved, science, Shakespeare, drama...
Things I didn’t like and didn’t support her in.
Anguish taints the memories and I try to shift back to better times before we started drifting apart and sadness had begun to influence her person.
When the cell door opens I sit up in shock, sure I’m imagining it. Mr. Kingston walks in and I sigh and lie back down. He makes his way into the tiny room and I fight the urge to ask him to leave.
“How are you holding up?” he asks gently.
“Fine. This is a great vacation,” I say with all the sarcasm I can muster.
He is silent for a moment and I begin to prep myself for the tough questions I know are coming. “How long do you think you’ve been in here?” he asks, and I struggle against shock. This isn’t what I expected.
“Uh, eight hours?” I guess, feeling so totally lost. But I’m quick to follow up with, “There really is no way to know, it just feels like a lot of time has passed.”
The scratch of his pencil on paper is a welcome distraction and I focus on it as silence prevails otherwise. He continues writing and the question just bursts from me.
“How long has it been?” I ask, feeling foolish.
But he doesn’t answer right away. He continues writing and I inch closer and closer to wanting to take the pencil and snap it in half.
With as much patience as I’m able, I wait. Time drags on as I begin to scream internally. Fuck, just talk to me!
His head jerks up and I realize I spoke the thought aloud.
“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks blazing scarlet.
Still, he jots notes and I realize he’s baiting me. And I see why. I’m so used to contact, stimuli, conversation, that I’m desperate for it now. It’s lacking and all of me wants to replace it as best I can, even if that means dragging it out of someone.
Why, then, does Bannish refuse to speak?
Does he not crave contact as I already do?
“I’m ready for my hour with Bannish,” I say and Mr. Kingston stops writing and peers up at me over his notepad. “Very well, I’ll tell Parker.”
I nod and thank him quietly, bracing myself for the absolute loneliness that’s about to crash over me. The second the door closes, I’m up and pacing. Emptiness consumes me.
It feels like days have passed when finally Parker comes to my cell. He opens the door and motions me with a jerk of his head. I follow and he leads me to the same meeting spot I’d met with Bannish before.
Bannish is sitting at the table, watching me approach and I feel something akin to joy at his presence. It’s so good just to have someone to talk to. I sit and start talking almost instantly.
“I don’t know how you do it. I’ve been here only a little while and I swear I’m losing it already.”
Shock crosses his features and I’m quick to realize why.
And I decide to tell him the story. Well, an edited version of the story at least.
But why? Who is he going to tell? What do I have to gain by not telling him everything? Why not just spill everything and at least have the relief of having it out there, even if he’s got nothing to add?
My words are hesitant at first.
“My sort of boyfriend lost it.” I study Bannish’s shocked electric green eyes as he listens to me. “I mean, we wern’t dating. It was just a relationship of convenience. Anyway,” I continue, “He told me he loved me. I didn’t feel the same way so I ended it. And he started doing crazy shit. Like sending me roses, which I hate, and a card with roses on it that said he’d love me until the roses on the card died.”
I see him register shock and I nod, glad that I’m not the only one creeped out by it. “See? Fucking creepy. But I told him to leave me alone and that he’s a creep. And an asshole.”
Bannish leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and fixing every bit of his attention on my words. It’s a good feeling to be so absolutely at the center of someone’s world.
“Then he came to my apartment, told my neighbor that he forgot his key and she let him in.” He arches an eyebrow and I’m quick to say,
“I never gave him a key. He lied and used her to get to me.”
Anger flashes in his features and I’m startled. Why would that make him angry? Just in the sense that someone would do something to terrible?
I continue despite wanting to ask him questions about his reaction. “So he just sat on the couch and waited for me to get out of the shower. When I did, I asked him how he got in and he told me. Then I freaked the fuck out and slammed and locked my bedroom door.”
Bannish’s eyebrows shoot up and I sense he’s lost in the story. His eyes study my face, then lower to my shaking hands that are stretched out before me on the table and clasped so tightly it’s obvious I’m trying to stop or hide the trembling.
I need to tell the story. I’m not sure why, but I need him to understand what I’ve done and why. “Then he started throwing himself against the door, trying to break through. So I ran into the bathroom. I’m not sure why, but I opened the window and climbed out. I was on a ledge that was literally four inches wide, ten stories up.”
His body jolts like he’s been hit with an electric current and intensity rolls off him. His posture tightens and I know every muscle in his body is tense as can be. It’s almost as if he’s afraid for me.
“I thought about jumping,” I admit in a tiny voice that’s near a whisper. Shame rolls over me and I stare down at the table between my elbows.
Warmth suddenly surrounds my hands and my whole body jerks. I’m quick to meet his gaze. There’s a warmth, an understanding I can’t face, but buried under it all I recognize worry.
And I can’t take it.
What would Andrea say?
What would he have said back when we’d actually spoken like friends while Andrea held him tight. I hang my head. His hands cover mine so totally I try not to jerk away in self consciousness because I’m shaking so hard there is no way he doesn’t notice.
Instead, I just stare at his large square hands as memories flood me and commandeer my every sense.
“See? I told you!” Andrea’s hand is swallowed up in the hand of the last man on Earth I’d expected her to be with.
Everything about him weighs heavily on the room; from his earthy cologne, to his charcoal suit, to the way he towers over Andrea.
He just... fills the room.
And I’m sure he knows it.
I meet the crystalline green eyes of Michael Bannish.
“Aren’t you eighteen?” I ask him, ready to raise hell, and not just because I’m jealous.
“We don’t care. Besides, we’re not having sex,” Andrea said, but I could tell it was bullshit in the way her eyes darted to him before refusing to meet mine again.
“You’re sixteen!” I hiss the words and Andrea begs me not to tell.
But Bannish doesn’t appear worried.
And it’s one more thing about him that pisses me off. He’s so sure that his money will save him no matter what. Even if dad found out and pressed charges, he’d never go to jail. He’d never really have to face the true consequences like anyone else would.
The memory fades and I see him here and now, across the concrete table. His hands still rest over mine and his orange jumpsuit is a far cry from his taste in dark, expensive suits.
And his eyes question me, as if he’s curious where I went just now.
“Remember when she told me you two were together?” I whisper, my throat aching.
He blinks and nods, and I wonder if I’m imagining the agony in his features.
“I feel guilty I was mad at her.” It’s a truth I’ve kept inside. I feel guilty for every mean moment, every hard word, every unkind action, though they were few and far between.
He gives a quick shake of his head and I interpret it to mean that she understood even the darkest moments we shared.
Despite the weight of the moment I smile as I say, “I hated Richard.”
His eyes narrow just a bit and I sense anger. Still, I push forward.
“He was such a dick. I don’t know how he found out about you two, but I wanted to lay him out more than once.” Suddenly serious, I study his face. “Was he good to her?” I’d like to think I’d know, but I’m coming to realize that I’ve missed important moments somewhere along the way.
And from the way his nostrils flare, his eyebrows struggle to meet across a wrinkle on his forehead, and the sudden trembling rage I sense in him, I know he wasn’t.
Sorrow fills me and I hang my head once more.
“I should have known.” My voice is a whisper that’s broken by tears. And Bannish tightens his grip on my hands until I look up. Our eyes meet and I sense he’s offering to mend my soul while begging for forgiveness.
He’s a far cry from the boy I remember.
And it’s a good thing.
But why am I talking to him so candidly? Why am I telling him all of these dark secrets? Why do I care if he understands how dark my thoughts are sometimes?
But I know the answer. I need someone to tell. Someone I know wont betray me. Who better than a man who doesn’t speak? A man that I’m well known to dislike, so even if he did start talking, no one would believe I really told him anything.
I continue in a soft tone. “When I thought about jumping I found some strength I didn’t know I had.” He continues to study me intently.
“I knew it wasn’t over. So I carefully tiptoed to the next door neighbor’s window. They let me in,” I have to stop as pain washes over me once more and tears threaten to choke me.