After You Died

by Dea Poirier

  “Running away. Third time I’ll be back at Dozier.” He settles into his seat. I notice he’s moved a few inches away from me. His bound hands are pressed against the back of the seat in front of him, like he’s ready to use it to run from me.

  “To punish you for running away, they send you away?”

  “Fucking stupid, ain’t it?” He laughs, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s happy about his return to Dozier. His apprehension seems to float away on his laughter.

  I nod. The stories I’ve heard rush into my mind. He’s experienced, he’d know. “How bad is it really?”

  “Eh, depends whose bad side you get on. Any of the guards hate you, you’re gonna wish you were dead.” He squints, like if he looks at me close enough, he might be able to tell what I’m really in for. “You really killed someone? How long did they give you for that?”

  “Just because they sent me here doesn’t mean I’m guilty,” I clarify, maybe, just maybe, I can convince him I didn’t do it. “They gave me five years.”

  His eyes bug, and his mouth drops open. With his mouth this wide, I can see he’s missing a couple teeth in the back. “Five years? Longest stretch I’ve ever heard of was three. You’re going to be there ‘til the cutoff?”

  “The cutoff?”

  “Once you’re twenty-two, that’s the cutoff. Then it’s either prison or the real world,” Sayid explains.

  Something tells me I won’t be there for five years. Though I’m not sure what my future holds, I can’t see Dozier being a part of it. I’m not sure I’ll even make it another year if I don’t figure out what happened with Olivia.

  “How long you got?” I ask trying to fill the silence. I’m not sure if he’s as uncomfortable as I am, if he is, he doesn’t show it.

  “A year,” Sayid says. “I’ll get out when I’m nineteen.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  How many more times after that will he be back?

  He scoots closer to me, on the edge of his seat. Dark hair covers the left half of his face. But I can still see his dark brown eyes are wide, hungry. “Who’d you kill?”

  As much as I don’t want to talk about it, I know how curiosity works. The more I avoid it, the more he’ll want to know. Then stories will start to circulate, things far worse than the truth. And that’s how I’ll end up with 400 people asking me questions instead of just one. That’s the way the lies spiraled out of control at my old school. That’s how I went from the bad kid who skipped class, to the bad kid who supposedly robbed liquor stores while I was supposed to be in biology. I might have rarely gone to biology, but I never robbed a goddamn liquor store, or any store for that matter.

  “My best friend.” The words sting, not only because I may have killed my best friend, but because she was never more than that. It feels wrong even calling her my best friend. There’s no way those words will ever convey how close we were.

  He leans back against the seat, not looking at me.

  Is this how it’s going to be? Am I at the top of the criminal food chain now?

  It will be a lonely five years if everyone avoids me, fearing they’ll end up my next victim. Then again, maybe that’s safer. Maybe, it’s for the best if I’m on my own. It’s not safe for anyone to be around me.

  Finally he asks, “How’d you get into Dozier with that on your record? Hearing about a murderer there, it’s rare. I mean, some people become murderers while they’re at Dozier. Hardly anyone ever comes there that way, though. And if they do, they’re locked away with the crazies. By the looks of it, since you get to ride in on the bus, you’re not one of the crazies.”

  “My dad’s a judge.” I’m not sure if it’s the money or his judgeship that got me into Dozier, or a combination of the two, at the end of the day, I don’t really care. But I do know if it hadn’t been for my father, I’d be on my way to prison.

  The light inside the bus dims, I look out the window. Outside, the trees huddle around the road. Spanish moss waves, and hangs low from the branches. The trunks grow so close together, it starts to stamp out the sun. At the edges of the road, light gleams on the water. Swamp creeps onto the road, green water laps at the pavement. I watch the trees pass, and for a moment I swear I catch a glimpse of something red slipping between the trees.

  “We’re getting close,” he says looking out the window. “The sign is coming up here soon.”

  The bus starts to slow, a large brick sign says, “Arthur G. Dozier School for Boys,” in white letters.

  We follow a long winding road. The trees crowding around the road seem to weep. A groaning gurgle comes from the bus engine as we lurch to a stop. The driver leans out the window, making small talk with someone at a guard station. I try to tune in to hear what they’re saying, but it’s impossible over the rattling and sputtering. Finally, the gate lifts and we roll forward again.

  My eyes are glued to the window. What the hell is this school doing smack dab in the middle of nothing? It’s sandwiched between Alabama and the gulf. We’re so far into the sticks of the Florida panhandle, I’m sure no one bothers to try to escape.

  “If someone tried to escape, where would they go?”

  Sayid lets out a little laugh. “Marianna, somewhere else in Florida. It takes time, but it’s not impossible. I’ve done it.”

  The trees scatter, the forest opens to large expanses. We pass cornfields, barns, grazing cattle, and come up on what looks like a small town. Above everything, a large white water tower looms. In its shadow colonial houses stand. We pass several modern buildings, a playground, a football field, a pool. I make out words like dormitory and dining hall. And take notice of a small white building at the center of it all.

  “What’s that?” I ask Sayid when I see it, there’s no sign.

  He fidgets and chews on his lip before he says, “The white house.”

  His words leave me even more confused. I start to ask, but he continues.

  His voice drops, I can barely hear him over the engine. “That’s where they take you if you break the rules.” All the life seems to drain out of his face, and his body stiffens. “Beatings, torture, those are the best things that happen there. You don’t want to end up there.”

  Then I see the white crosses growing from the stretch of greenery beside the white house. There has to be fifty of them. Some are newer, bright white, standing straight up. The older crosses, the ones in the back, they’re yellowed, and falling over. Dozier has its own graveyard.

  He motions toward it, tapping his finger on the window. “That right there’s the worst. Don’t break the rules, or be careful if you do. This isn’t like school where you break the rules and get detention. The guards lose control sometimes, kids die. Kids just like us die. If you see Melvin, you go the other direction. Stay away from him. He’s as bad as it gets.” His eyes are wide when he looks back at me. “Unless you’re one of the privileged few, you’ve got to be careful. If you get on the wrong guard’s bad side, you could end up in there for practically nothing.”

  A lump forms in my throat, I try to swallow it. My veins run cold, and goose bumps prickle my neck. “Privileged few?”

  “The kids who can buy their way out of the white house.”

  “Then how’d they end up here in the first place?” I ask. Seems if your family can buy you out of the white house, they should be able to buy you a one-way ticket to somewhere more accommodating.

  “High profile cases, those kids have to go somewhere. At least for a little while. Believe me, their life at Dozier is nothing compared to ours.”

  I swallow hard, and look back at the white house. “Why would you do anything that might get you sent back here again, then?” I ask. If it’s so bad, if there’s a risk that great, why would anyone come back? If I ever get out of this place, I’m sure as hell never coming back.

  He shrugs. “I’m good at making bad choices. That’s what everyone says, anyway. Here though, I don’t do anything to get me put in there.” He pauses for a moment, t
hen adds. “Well, I don’t get caught.” A sly smile creeps across his face.

  My mouth goes dry when I ask, “Ever been in there?”

  He shakes his head. “But one of my old roommates in the dorm, he got welts so bad he couldn’t sit for days. Didn’t learn his lesson. The next time they beat him so badly he had internal bleeding. He was in the Dozier hospital for months.”

  “Dozier has its own hospital?”

  “Of course. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to hide all the shit they pull.” He looks at the cemetery. “There’s no way that’s all the bodies. There’s probably bones under every inch of this place. The gravel on the roads, the pebbles in the flower beds, bet those are ground up kids too. Sometimes, I wonder if they’re in the food.”

  A creeping feeling slithers up my spine. My palms are slick with sweat, I wipe them on my pants. I won’t let it show how much it scares me. After all, they may just be stories to frighten the new kid. At least, I can hope. After all, they’ve done countless investigations.

  Otherwise they would have shut this place down, wouldn’t they?

  “How does no one notice so many people going missing?” I ask.

  Sayid shrugs. “There are no walls around this place. It could be as simple as saying they ran away. Mark my words, one day people will realize what really went on here. One day they’ll find all the kids who disappeared.”

  The bus stops. When the engine dies I realize how numb my ass is from the vibrations. My ears still hum, waiting for the sound to return. Several guards come onto the bus. It looks like we’ll each get our own guard. Joy.

  Students line up outside, their hungry eyes watch as we file off the bus. Several kids wave hello to Sayid as we pass. We’re ushered into a modern building, if this had been anywhere else, this building would be a welcome center. Here, though, it’s an administrative building. Inside there are several threadbare cells, along the left hand side. Along the right side, desks are scattered without rhyme or reason. Each has its own personality. Ugly knickknacks, family pictures, and greeting cards cover each one.

  We’re led into a back room, one at a time. After two boys come out uneasy, white as a Camarillo Stallion, I know what’s coming. Though thanks to county lockup I’ve now had to strip, crouch, and cough in front of more people than I’d like to admit. It feels stupid now only six months ago, I hoped the first person to see me naked would be Olivia.

  “Asher,” a gruff guard with a few remaining tufts of gray hair, calls from a clipboard. He laughs and murmurs, “Pretty boy” as I walk past. Then he looks closer at the paperwork. It’s obvious when he reads what I’m in for. He stiffens, statue-still as he observes me. His eyes narrow, he looks at me like I’m about to kill him, I’m a bomb with less than an inch of fuse left. If I were in his position, I’m not sure I’d act much differently.

  The guard waves me into the back room, he looks relieved to be rid of me. Inside I find two more guards. It’s like an ant colony. They exchange a look, sharing a private joke. One guard is short with a face that reminds me of a bird. Pointed nose, beady black eyes, line of a mouth pokes out like a beak. The other man looks more like a lion. Flat nose, long sandy blonde hair, a long beard that seems to grow from his neck. He removes my handcuffs, and I rub my wrists.

  “Strip,” the bird guard squawks at me. His eyes are hungry like this is his favorite part of the day.

  I pull my shirt off, followed by my county issued sweat pants; the cord sewn in so I can’t hang myself with it, not that I checked. The socks are so small I have to peel them off. Then I slide off my underwear. No shame, no embarrassment. These guys get paid to look at dicks all day long, and I feel sorry for them.

  “Move your legs apart, crouch, and cough three times,” the lion guard growls.

  I follow his instructions. It’s sad I’ve gotten so good at naked crouching. My balance is perfect. Six months ago, I’d have fallen over.

  “Good, stand, turn around, and do it again,” the bird guard titters.

  I do as I’m bid. The guard says good again, like I’ve earned a gold star. They allow me to put my clothes back on, after they’ve thoroughly checked them. I face them, waiting to be dismissed, waiting for something.

  I join the other inmates. When Sayid is done with his strip search, I’m happy to see he seems as unfazed by the ordeal as I am. I’m even happier they don’t shave my head. It’d be a dead giveaway how new I am. Though I want to ask him what happens next, since everyone else is as silent as a vigil, I do the same. Anything to keep myself out of trouble, out of the white house.

  Once they’ve verified none of us have brought in any contraband, we walk along one of the streets to the auditorium. I’m surprised by the size, large enough to hold at least three hundred people. The walls are stark white plaster. An ancient black curtain hangs at the back, flanked by the American flag on one side, and the Florida state flag on the other. There’s a podium in the center of the stage.

  I take my seat next to Sayid. We’ve already broken off into little groups. Sayid and I. Three kids, barely thirteen. And a lone kid with long black hair, staring daggers at everyone.

  Sayid takes over the arm rest, and I fold my hands in my lap. I look over and catch him staring at me. For a moment, I appraise him, trying to discern the intent hidden behind his deep brown eyes. But he looks away too quickly. I swallow hard, and fix my eyes straight ahead. I sink into the seat and fold my hands in my lap.

  Once we’re seated on the uncomfortable dusty seats, the clicks of fine dress shoes on the tile floor draws my attention. An older man in his fifties, with a square jaw and a prominent brow strolls to the podium.

  There is a lightness in his step, like he’s unburdened by anything in the world around him. Even the rules of gravity don’t seem to apply to him. He looks down at all of us through thin rim glasses. I notice how much longer he focuses on me, not speaking. Just staring at me, through me. His message comes across clear as a bell, he’s watching me. Maybe, they’re all watching me.

  When I shift uncomfortably, he finally looks away. “Hello, Gentlemen.” His southern drawl manages something I’d never heard before. It makes him sound refined. And somewhat terrifying. A mix of bouji and New Orleans. I’m not sure if it is his tailored suit, his pocket square, or how every hair on his head is in exactly the place it should be. Someone this perfect must have something to hide. He’s probably got more secrets than the swamp.

  “Welcome.” He doesn’t quite mean it. Finally his eyes move away from me. “Your sentences may vary in length, some of you may only see us once.” He eyes linger on Sayid. “Some of you, we may see again. The same is expected of all of you, exemplary performance while you are here. As a student. As a worker. And anything else you may undertake while you are here. There are also important rules you must understand and follow. I’ll go over them today, but don’t worry, they are posted throughout the campus:

  Violence will not be tolerated.

  No sex or sex play.

  No illicit substances.

  No sneaking out.

  No swearing.

  No smoking.

  No skipping class.

  No skipping work detail.

  Lights out at 10pm.”

  He drones on for what seems like hours, talking about rules, punishments. I can’t focus, his voice is too monotone. I look ahead, like I would in class. Pretending. Finally, he finishes and signals for us to stand. The guards lead us out, and we make our way across the campus. We pass a few buildings that look like they’re decaying, others that look brand new, perfectly cut lawns, and boys playing basketball. Finally, we come to a stop.

  “These are the cottages, Washington.” He points to a large colonial house a few minutes’ walk from us. “This is Madison. Sayid, Asher, come with me.”

  When he says my name, my stomach jumps. It takes a few moments to realize I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s a strange comfort from Sayid being at my side, like the warmth of an old familiar blan
ket. I’ve never been comfortable with strangers, the only people I’ve spent much time around are people I’ve known my whole life. There’s only been one exception to that: Dominic. We follow our guard, the four remaining kids follow the other guards.

  “You’ll both be bunking here,” he explains. “We’re low on residents at the moment, so you two will have a room all to yourselves.” He laughs at a joke we aren’t privy to. “That is, until one of the other kids tries to shank you for your bed.”

  It takes a lot of effort to keep my face stoic, while the fear drags its cold fingers along my spine. But I manage. I have to be strong.

  The guard leads us up the ancient steps, across a groaning porch, and into a foyer. Ahead of us, a steep narrow staircase disappears into the darkness. To the right is a room filled with couches. Every inch of wall space is taken up by them. Only one small bit of the room escapes the couch occupation, here the smallest TV I’ve ever seen sits. Ugly green wallpaper with a flower pattern coats the walls.

  To the left there’s another room scattered with floral seating options. Everything here is dirty and worn, as beaten as the boys in the white house. They’ve been sat in so many times there’s holes straight down to the fiber. Streams of light pour in the moth-eaten curtains. At the back of the house, there’s a pool table, foosball table, and a shell of a kitchen. Well, a kitchen minus all the appliances. Really, it looks like it’s just for water.

  The guard leads us up the stairs, and I realize he’s been talking the entire time. But I haven’t heard any of it. Upstairs there are five rooms and a small bathroom with just a toilet across from the stairs. Each of the rooms holds rows of bunk beds, and sparse furniture. Every room looks well lived in, clothes strewn across beds, posters taped behind bunks.

  When I walk into our room the fear from the guard’s words dissolves. There isn’t much chance of anyone coming after us for these beds, or this room. It’s unused, untouched, stale. Our room holds three barren sets of metal bunk beds. One on the left, one on the right, and one smack dab in the middle of a window, a dresser at the end of each. This room isn’t quite as worn as the living room. It smells vaguely of dust, a thin film coats everything. The curtains are a patchwork of what looks like old dress shirts. There’s no life in this room like there is the others.