Incarceration

Chapter Five

The cafeteria is eerily quiet and I soon discover the source of the uneasy feeling spreading through my stomach. Looking around, I see what seems like a thousand questioning eyes staring back at me. Slowly, I turn back to my table and stare anxiously down at my food. I begin to eat, trying desperately to ignore the whispers circulating the room.

A loud thud sounds from the other end of my table as a body recklessly collapses into it. I look up, scared at what I might find. It's the boy I had seen nearly beaten to death this morning. His dark hair falls into a pair of stunningly desperate green eyes. He leans forward across the table so his face is just inches away from my own and then whispers aggressively, "How do you get out of here?"

Startled and lost for a response, I look around again. All eyes and attention seem to be glued on us. I look back at him and whisper the first thing that comes to my mind, but an honest answer nevertheless, "I don't know."

He stands up swiftly and turns his back to me. His prison uniform is still stained with blood, and for the first time, I notice the white cloths coiled tightly around his arms. I look down at my own bruised, cut, and blood-crusted forearms—then at everyone else's bloodied and exposed bodies. Prisoners don't get bandages.

Pushing away, I get up in pursuit of the boy with white bandages, who had already disappeared from my view behind the crowd of curious eyes. Awkwardly, I hobble to catch up with him, still wincing from my recent injuries. Reaching out and grabbing his shirt, I pull him to a stop. He grimaces and yanks his arm away swiftly, turning to meet me with frustrated rage flickering brightly in his faded eyes.

When his eyes meet mine, a knot forms in my throat as though the fire coursing through his blood is somehow choking me. He stares me down and asks again, "How do you get out?" He's pained and pale, as though he's endured too much in a small amount of time. All I find myself able to do is stare at him. Glancing around, I'm glad to see that with my absence most of the other prisoners have returned to eating dinner normally again.

"Come with me."

We walk to a somewhat secluded area of the room, still in plain sight of everyone but out of ears' reach. We sit down.

"Where'd you get those bandages?" I ask directly.

He quickly drops his hands into his lap, hiding most of his arms under the table.

"What's it to you?" he demands. Nervous, he gets defensive. "What? No introduction? You can't just ask me questions like that without knowing me. Do you even know what my name is?"

"Okay," I say patiently, "what's your name then?"

"I'm Wyatt Oliver."

"Maxwell."

He looks at me, surprised for a second. "That's really your name? Doesn't really match your . . . personality, does it?"

"Why does gender matter? And that's not my real name. It's Harriet," I say, growing impatient.

"Oh," he says, looking even more surprised, "How do you even get Maxwell from Harriet?"

"Maxwell is my last name; Harriet is my first."

He nods. Then he starts again, "Well, Harriet—"

"Don't call me that."

"Maxwell then," he corrects himself, "I'm nineteen. I stole from a convenience store. Look," he adds quickly, "I'm not a bad guy. We were just in a tight situation . . ." He trails off, looking even more uncomfortable. "Anyway, bail is super-expensive, and we couldn't pay back what I had stolen so . . ."

We stare at each other for a moment and then Wyatt breaks the silence. "Well, I'm done. Now you."

"Uh . . ." I haven't planned on telling anyone my life story. "I'm twenty." I pause for a second, but he doesn't say anything. "I grew up working here with my dad. He was a guard and since guards are forced to live here, my brother and I grew up to become guards, as well. My dad was the only one aware of what was really happening in Ranum. The people in here, like you, aren't bad people. The prison's harsh rules, punishments, and oppression turn them into bad people. He came up with the idea at first—breaking people out, I mean. It took months for him to figure out how, but when he did, he began to teach me. After he was gone, I continued where he left off and in the end, I freed seven people." I feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as I recount my life before incarceration. Suddenly, I notice Wyatt beginning to grin, too.

"So how do you get out of here then?" he asks again.

The aggression has disappeared from his voice. What remains is simply raw and desperate hope. I look into his eyes and wish I could give a different answer, but I can't, so, again I say, "I don't know."

Wyatt sits back, a bit dejected, and remains silent.

"Look, Wyatt, if I knew a way out, I would be gone by now, really. I want to help you, but I can't."

"Okay." He nods and turns his attention back towards his still full plate of food. I take a bite of my own and attempt to start a normal conversation.

"What game did you get assigned?"

Wyatt looks taken aback. "Game? What are you talking about?"

"You know, the Sim."

"Oh, yeah," he murmurs, chasing a pea around with his fork as he searches for an answer.

Realization begins to dawn on me as I look at Wyatt, and he seems to notice. If he's not playing a game . . .

"Wyatt, what are they doing to you?" I whisper.

Clearly uncomfortable, Wyatt gets up hastily and begins to back away from me. It isn't until he crashes into a chair that he breaks eye contact with me and turns. All I can do is sit there and stare, aghast, as I watch Wyatt approach a guard and get escorted back to his cell. Prisoners don't get personal escorts, either.

I'm still sitting at my table long after Wyatt leaves, contemplating our conversation and picking at my food. By the time the bell rings to end dinner, I feel like I've replayed the events thousands of times in my head. Still thinking, I file back into line and walk back to my cell for the night.