Doomed

by Josh Anderson

  Manning held up the lighter. “I got this now. You’ll be fine. Go to sleep, inmates.”

  “And hey, Pitkin,” Staley said. “None of your gang shit’s gonna fly in here. Just ask your fellow Lions or Tigers or whatever the hell you’re called.” Kyle knew Staley was aware that the Tigres pretty much ran Stevenson Youth. The guards had to talk a big game, but when it came down to it, even they were afraid of getting too far on the bad side of the more powerful gangs. Everyone had cousins or friends on the outside.

  Kyle wished he could defend himself, but he just watched the guards walk out of their cell. He cleaned up the burnt clippings from the floor and tossed them into the trash container. Scared as he felt to roll the dice with another trip through the time tunnel, living in this reality was quickly proving itself to be unsustainable.

  Leonard just laid in his bunk with a self-satisfied look. Everything tangible Kyle had to remember the kids from the crash was gone now. Even his memory was tainted—a combination of recollections from the original crash, the second crash after his father had tried to stop it from happening, and this third version of the crash which Kyle caused while running from the police.

  Kyle felt his stomach drop as he tossed the remains of his clippings and his folder into the garbage bin, and saw the stringy piece of burnt material underneath them. It was the silk blot, but it no longer looked sleek and other-worldly. Instead, it was just a blackened piece of fabric now. Kyle tried to poke his hand through, but he might as well have been trying to enter the time tunnel with a dish towel at that point.

  Kyle had no question that he’d been better off before ever going through a silk blot. But now, his emergency exit from this horrid new timestream was destroyed just as he was coming to the conclusion he might really need it. He closed his eyes, despondent at the thought that his current reality was as good as life would ever get.

  CHAPTER 8

  February 23, 2016

  * * *

  The next morning

  Kyle expected to be sent right to solitary as soon as the lights were back on, but he wasn’t.

  At breakfast in the chow hall, Franc, another one of the Tigres, walked up right behind him and just took his tray of food. “Take a hint, faggot, and put in for a transfer,” Franc said. He took Kyle’s tray over to his table, where Leonard and some other Tigres just glared at him, silently daring him to tell one of the guards.

  Later that morning, Kyle tried to rest in the cell while Leonard was out at visiting hours. Just as he started to doze off, though, he heard the lock on the cell, and then the door opened. He figured his punishment for the night before had finally come.

  Officer Radbourn walked in and Kyle didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to anger him again—not when punishment was already on the way.

  “Inmate, I’ve got a . . . Sillow Cash here to see you. Home address is 1363 East Almond Boulevard, Jacksonville, Florida.”

  “I’ll accept the visitor,” Kyle said. He got up and followed Radbourn into the auditorium. He saw Leonard sitting with a girl who looked like she could be his sister. Short and bulky like him. Skin tatted up beyond recognition, and a scowl that said “fuck off.”

  Kyle scanned the room and found his father. “Thanks, Ol—Officer Radbourn.”

  Kyle had memories now of Sillow coming to visit him a lot during the past two years. If there had been one positive thing to come out of his traveling through time, it was that in this new reality, he’d spent time with his father and they’d gotten to know each other a little.

  Kyle looked to make sure none of the guards were looking right at them, and then hugged Sillow tight. When he felt Sillow start to pull away, Kyle hugged him harder, choking back tears.

  “You just got back,” Sillow said.

  “Yeah,” Kyle answered. “Did you know?”

  Sillow sat down, and wrinkled his brow. “Know what?”

  “This whole time, these two years since the crash that you’ve been visiting me . . . Did you know that I’d go back and it wouldn’t work?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, actually,” Sillow said. “I don’t remember knowing, but I know now that we tried to stop the crash two years ago together and it didn’t work. I can’t explain.”

  It hurt Kyle’s head to think about. He wondered how Sillow could visit him for two years after the day they failed to stop the crash, but never say anything. Then again, this reality didn’t exist until Kyle went back. If he couldn’t explain it, he couldn’t blame his father for not being able to either.

  “It’s really bad here right now, dad,” Kyle said, his voice cracking. “Going back made my life go from bad to worse . . . I’ve got this new cellmate who’s . . . I don’t know.”

  “Who’s what?” Sillow asked, looking sympathetically at his son.

  “He’s scary, dad,” Kyle whispered, self-conscious that someone might hear. “I got twenty years to go, and . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know if I can do it.” He quickly ducked around Sillow and sat in a seat where he was blocked from most of the other inmates. He bit the inside of his cheek to try to stop his tears, and prevent a full crying jag. The last thing Kyle needed was to look weaker right now. “I don’t even think I can survive in here anymore. Without Ochoa . . . ”

  “What’s the issue with this guy?” Sillow asked.

  “He wants me to put in for a cell transfer,” Kyle said.

  Sillow shrugged. “Then do it, son—”

  “You know how it works, dad,” Kyle said. “I back down on this, then these guys own me. It’s not like the outside . . . I need you to get me a silk blot.”

  “Last time I checked, they don’t sell those at Wal-Mart,” Sillow said.

  “The woman who originally sent me back,” Kyle said. “In this 2016, she hasn’t come to see me. She thinks I’m a murderer. I need you to find her and tell her I need a silk blot . . . Myrna Rachnowitz. Tell her I’ll get it right this time. Tell her if she gets me out of here, I promise I’ll save her brother’s life.”

  “Kyle,” Sillow said. “Is that really something you can promise? What if you make it even worse? Seems like maybe there are forces at play,” Sillow sighed, “I don’t know, like, forces bigger than us.”

  Kyle wiped away a tear, hoping no one would see. “I have no choice, Dad. I can’t do this. I really can’t.”

  Sillow patted him on the back. They’d never spoken about it, but Kyle knew that Sillow had done time in his younger days. “Every inmate’s said a million times ‘I can’t.’ I promise, you’ll get past this. You just gotta stand tall.”

  “Tell Myrna I need the silk blot soon,” Kyle said. “These guys are going to do whatever they can to get me out of that cell, but I don’t know if she can send a silk blot anywhere else in the prison. Promise me you’ll go find her?”

  “Sure, but I ain’t makin’ her any promises,” Sillow said. “I made enough promises I couldn’t keep to fill five lifetimes.”

  “Just try,” Kyle said.

  He wasn’t as sure as Sillow that he could somehow tough it out and make everything okay. If Sillow couldn’t come through and get another silk blot opened in Kyle’s cell, Kyle would have no choice but to put in for a transfer. But until he was sure that getting out of this incredibly fucked up timestream wasn’t a possibility, Kyle had no choice but to “stand tall” and try to survive.

  CHAPTER 9

  February 23, 2016

  * * *

  Moments later

  When Kyle got back to the cell, Leonard was sitting on his bunk looking at the half-burnt remains of Kyle’s clippings. He’d picked the ones from the garbage that still had some readable parts to them.

  He considered voicing his disgust, but didn’t. What difference would it make? he thought. Instead, he just avoided looking at Leonard and laid down on the hard metal of his bunk.

  “Why’d you save old newspapers?” Leonard asked. “You like reading about those kids you killed, you sick fuck?”

  “I’d rather not
talk about it,” Kyle said. He hated feeling like he had to walk on eggshells in his own home. He’d gotten so used to feeling somewhat comfortable in prison, he’d forgotten sometimes that he owed it all to Ochoa.

  Leonard pulled one of the articles close, trying to make sense of it despite the burns. “For a murderer, you sure are a pussy.”

  “Excuse me?” Kyle said.

  “Excuuuuse me?” Leonard answered back, in a mocking, feminine tone. “You heard me, pussy.”

  Kyle had no choice but to let it go, just like he let it go that Leonard had burnt his stuff in the first place, or that now he was looking through it. Standing his ground was one thing, but he knew not to push it with a guy like Leonard.

  “Real talk now, son,” Leonard said, sitting up in his bunk. “I’ve been patient with you . . . All my boys in here have been patient with you. Now, it’s time for you to put in for a transfer. My boy Raffy in Block D’s gonna move in here, and you can go where’s he’s at now. He already put in the request. You do the same, and it’ll get done.”

  “Why do you care so much?” Kyle answered.

  Leonard hopped off his bunk to the floor in the middle of the cell. He looked in the air and took a deep breath as if he were dealing with a frustrating young child and he was trying to control his temper. “None of your fuckin’ business . . . Just put in for the fuckin’ transfer and you can do your time, and I’ll do mine,” he said slowly, ensuring that Kyle knew he wasn’t asking.

  Kyle sat up too. After starting the fire, he had no idea how far Leonard was capable of going.

  When Leonard walked to the door and peeked out the small window, Kyle stood up. “Listen, Leonard, this has been my space for almost two years. Give me a few days.”

  “For what?” Leonard asked. “No, this isn’t a fuckin’ negotiation.”

  “Two days,” Kyle said.

  “No days,” Leonard said.

  Kyle could tell by the look in Leonard’s eyes as he moved toward him that they were done talking. Leonard grabbed Kyle’s right wrist and pulled it toward his face. The back of Kyle’s hand made contact just below Leonard’s eye. Leonard grabbed harder as Kyle tried to pull his hand away. Again, Leonard snapped Kyle’s hand against his face. He was making Kyle hit him.

  “Make a fist,” Leonard said, still clutching his wrist.

  “What? No!”

  Leonard’s eyes made him look insane. He twisted Kyle’s wrist so hard it felt like it was going to break. “Make a fist, pussy.”

  Kyle clenched his hand into a fist. Without any hesitation, Leonard grabbed Kyle’s wrist with his other hand and started head-butting his fist, over and over. Leonard smiled as he used Kyle’s fist to punch himself in the face.

  “What the hell are you doing, Leonard?” Kyle asked. But Leonard was in a zone. Every time he lifted his head before bashing his face against Kyle’s hand, Kyle could see that he was laughing. Leonard didn’t stop for a good minute—even as he opened up a cut on his left eyebrow. Each ‘punch’ hurt Kyle’s hand more and more.

  “You think anyone’s going to believe I beat you up?” Kyle said. “This is stupid.”

  Suddenly, Leonard stopped. Kyle saw the blood dripping over his eye. Leonard blotted it with his finger, looked at it and smiled. “You’re right.”

  The first punch to the side of his head felt to Kyle like he’d walked into a wall. After two more blows, Kyle was on the floor, curled on his side and protecting his head with his arms from any further beating. Leonard kicked him in the ribs for what felt like several minutes. Kyle kept shifting his body around as he writhed on the floor, trying to protect himself.

  He rolled over and watched Leonard pound on the metal door of the cell. In less than a minute, Officers Gee and Forsyth came in. Leonard told them that Kyle had attacked him, and he’d hit Kyle trying to defend himself. For a guy who didn’t sound like he had many brain cells in him, Leonard was a great liar, Kyle thought to himself. The little details came so easily to him.

  As Kyle slowly stood up, he started to form the words to defend himself—disputing the story Leonard had put out there.

  “Are you kidding me, Pitkin?” Gee asked him. “You’re telling me he came at you? Not fucking likely.” Kyle didn’t like Gee, but he was an equal opportunity asshole and didn’t play favorites.

  “I swear,” Leonard said, maybe not wanting to go too far out of his way to convince anyone he’d lost a fight.

  “Whatever this shit is,” Gee said. “Work it out.”

  “I don’t feel safe with him in here,” Leonard said, but it lacked the conviction he’d started with.

  “It’s prison,” Gee said. “You’re not supposed to feel safe.”

  Officer Forsyth moved closer to Kyle, and looked at his eye. Forsyth looked more like an accountant than a prison guard, but he didn’t take shit and he went by the book, so most of the inmates respected him. “I don’t like the way this eye looks, Gee,” Forsyth said. “Warden would probably say somethin’ like this has gotta get looked at by the infirmary.”

  “Alright,” Gee said, sounding bored with the whole thing already. “Take him down.”

  Forsyth gently pulled Kyle toward the door by his upper arm.

  “Seriously,” Gee said. “I see something like this with the two of you again, I’ll throw you both in SHU for a month. You’ll be praying for the time you can reunite in your unhappy little home.”

  Stevenson Youth’s physician, Dr. Krebb, was only in the building a day or two a week, which meant there was always a long wait to see him. Since there was only one exam room, the prison’s nurse, Mrs. Waukegan, sat at a small desk next to the waiting area when the doctor was in with one of the inmates.

  Kyle’s head throbbed from being punched. He was happy at first for the excuse to get out of his cell, but he was on hour three now—with one inmate still ahead of him—of waiting for treatment that would likely consist of an icepack, and maybe a couple of Advil. He wished it were like a regular doctor’s office and there were some magazines, or something—anything—to keep him occupied.

  “He got you good!” the other guy waiting said to him. They’d never spoken before, but he was one of those guys that everyone knew. His name was Rakeem, and he was young, but he strutted around Stevenson like he owned the place. Kyle would’ve been shocked if he was even fifteen.

  “I just fell,” Kyle said.

  Rakeem cocked an eyebrow at Kyle’s answer. “Yeah, you fell alright,” he said. “Fell into your new cellie’s fist! You got fucked up, son. Ain’t no shame in that.”

  “Whatever,” Kyle said. “I don’t really feel like talking.”

  “That’s alright,” Rakeem said, flashing a toothy smile. “I know everything you could tell me already anyway. I know everything that goes down ‘round here.”

  “It’s been a shitty day,” Kyle said. “I just wanna get this over with.”

  “Good luck with tryin’ to move this shit along,” he said loudly enough for Nurse Waukegan to hear. Then, he lowered his voice, back to a normal speaking level. “You gotta be able to defend yourself better than that. Especially when you got a spot like yours. I wouldn’t wanna give that up neither.”

  The kid was a natural charmer. Self-assured. The kind of guy who grows up to be a politician—if not for the criminal record. Kyle had no interest in talking right now, but wondered what he meant about not wanting to give up his cell.

  “On the other hand, you can’t blame the Tigres if they tryin’ to fill that power vacuum, now that Kingpin done escaped,” Rakeem said. “You’re just like some, what do they call it? Collateral damage.”

  “Who’s ‘Kingpin?’” Kyle asked.

  “You know, Coke-choa,” Rakeem answered, laughing to himself. “E-choa. Meth-choa. He could cho-a you whatever you needed, as long as you choa-ed him the money.”

  Kyle couldn’t believe what he was saying.

  “Who are you talking about?” Kyle asked. “Ochoa wasn’t dealing.”

  Rakeem
gave him that get-the-hell-out-of-here look again. “Yeah, okay . . . ”

  “I’m serious,” Kyle said.

  Rakeem smiled to himself like he’d just heard something mind-blowingly ridiculous. “Oh shit! Either you was in on it, or you’re the dumbest motherfucker in here. Cause your boy was dealin’ to the whole prison, brah. You know this! Come on!”

  Kyle tried to think about whether this version of Ochoa—the drug dealer Ochoa—was part of this messed up new reality he’d created, or whether he’d just been oblivious. Again, Kyle could feel himself going back in his mind to memories which conflicted with each other. He did remember an Ochoa who was different—more involved in the prison’s social structure. A bit more threatening to Kyle. If he tried really hard, he could remember Ochoa packing up small lumps of hash into plastic wrap lifted from the chow hall. But he could also remember kind, goofy Ochoa, who kept to himself except to remind other inmates to give him and Kyle a wide enough berth to peacefully do their time.

  He’d only gone back and forth through the time tunnel twice, and Kyle felt overwhelmed and confused by all of the different memories from different timestreams. No wonder Allaire seemed a bit crazy sometimes. Kyle couldn’t imagine how many memories on top of each other she must be contending with.

  “Yo, Nurse, seriously, how much longer?” Rakeem shouted, jarring Kyle out of the intense revelation that he did know the drug-dealing version of Ochoa who Rakeem had described.

  “We’ll call you when it’s your turn, inmate,” Nurse Waukegan answered in her monotone voice, then she went back to reading her book.

  “Ochoa had the competitive advantage and ran with it,” Rakeem said. “And now, the Tigres want their turn in the magic cell. But, yo, even if you get yourself killed, I respect you for tryin’ to stand your ground.”

  Kyle scrunched up his face. “Magic cell?”