Incarceration

Chapter Twelve

It's still the middle of the night when there's a knock on my door. Confused, I don't move, but rather I rotate myself so I can get a clear view, scared of what might be lurking behind it. I can see a figure in the window. It's a boy, but I can't make out his face. I shrink back into my bed.

"Maxwell?" I hear the soft voice from behind the door.

"Wyatt?" I say, surprised to hear the familiar voice.

"Open the door," he says urgently. I uncoil myself and swing my legs over the bed. They were stronger, but I was unsure if I could make it all the way to the door without falling. Thankfully, I reach the door. I use the handle to support myself, then struggle to open it.

Wyatt is standing framed in the doorway. I step aside to let him in, most of my weight still supported by the door and the handle. Seeing my struggle, Wyatt helps me back to the bed.

"Why are you here?" I immediately ask.

"I was almost caught." He ignores my question. His voice shakes.

"How did you get out of your cell?" Questions flood my mind as I stare amazed at him.

"I saw you got hurt. I thought I'd stop by." Wyatt's still avoiding my questions.

"Oh," I say, surprised by his response. "Tell me more about the world outside." I let my other questions rest for now. Whatever is going on, Wyatt obviously has no desire to tell me.

"Do people ever . . ." I pause, not wanting to give the wrong impression, then say, "commit suicide?"

He moves to sit next to me on the bed.

"Oh, yeah," he says nonchalantly. "Only like all the time. It's kind of a normality."

"Why?" I ask.

Wyatt shrugs. "Why does it matter?"

"It just does, I guess," I concede. Admittedly, I didn't have a reason other than curiosity.

"If you really want to know, Max, I guess I can tell you. Remember the world I told you about before?"

I nod my head.

"The people living in the Madina don't like it. People keep coming, though, because it looks great from the outside. No one seems to have financial problems, the schools and jobs are excellent, and crime is almost nonexistent. It seems like the perfect place to live until people actually get here. There's no privacy anywhere. Hendrix and his staff watch every citizen's every move, making sure there are zero imperfections. No one can quit their job, or get in arguments, or do anything that would taint Hendrix's perfect little world he's built for himself. The other thing is no one can move out since that would make Madina look undesirable for some reason. So the only real way out," he pauses, "is suicide."

I don't reply for a moment. Trying to comprehend the magnitude of his words. Hendrix really had made the Madina just as much of a prison as Ranum.

"Wow," I say.

"Don't think about it, though," Wyatt urges me, sensing my hope fading. "There are plenty of opportunities outside of the prison—for happiness, I mean."

I wait for a moment.

"Will you tell me what your punishment is?" I say softly.

He studies my face. "Why is this so important to you?"

"It looks like they're torturing you, Wyatt. It looks like they're whipping you or beating you or I don't know what. Why do you need all those bandages all the time?" I say, pointing at his arms.