Incarceration

Chapter Twenty-Six

I find myself in a strange, disturbing hallway. It stretches before me, seemingly endless, its white paneled walls and tiled floors creating a path that continues forever. Screams echo from somewhere in the distance and my feet propel me toward them. I am running now, the cool, fresh air created by movement blowing lightly on my face and through my hair.

The hallway ends abruptly, leaving only one room for me to turn into. I feel my body moving—separate from myself—and I enter a stunningly bright room, the wide-open floors and high ceiling overwhelming me with grandeur.

The gigantic room stretches farther than I can see and only a couple of people move busily around the open space. I walk around, mesmerized by the perfectly white heaven. I see no sign of prison—until I look to my left.

There, windows line the wall. They stretch from ceiling to floor and extend in both directions. There is one after another. Pulling myself away from the thoughts of heaven, I move cautiously over to the windows that offer a clear view into the very depths of hell.

On the other side of each window is a large room and on the opposite wall stands a small glass box equipped with two monitors squished together. Inside the room, lying frightened on the floor, is a woman dressed in a prison uniform. She has her legs curled up to her chest and her arms shield her face from view, fragile, vulnerable, scared—completely dehumanized.

I move to the next window. This one has two prisoners. Both are standing upright and staring at the ceiling, where small pixels have begun to float down. The lights sprinkle around the prisoners, and then something comes over them as they lurch forward on their toes, a different look in their eyes than the ones they had possessed seconds before. I swallow hard, fear rising in my stomach.

I am pulled away from the window by an unknown force and am moved several feet down to the next one. A man stands in the middle of the room. He is panting and out of breath, pantomiming at nothing. I recognize him. He is the man I shot. And for the first time, I notice his hand holding the front of his abdomen, blood oozing out from the cracks in his fingers. A tight knot squeezes in my stomach and a foreboding feeling hangs heavily in the dry air. My hands spring to my eyes but between the cracks, I can see the two bullet holes appear sickeningly in his back. He flies forward and crashes the ground, twitching, and trying to scream out from a mouth sewn shut.

The scene is sketched deep into my mind, and even after I succumb to my emotions, crying and banging on the glass, it remains undamaged and clearer than ever. The tears streaming down my face blur my vision and my stomach roils with nausea. I stagger away from the window, doubled over and speechless with the feeling of guilt, anxiety, and panic. My head begins to pound, echoing the rapid beating of my heart as my body starts to tremble uncontrollably. Sweat drips from my forehead and an uncomfortable heat radiates out of me.

I stumble around the room looking for something to lean on. A wall meets my back and, gratefully, I slide down it, burrowing my head in my hands, trying to block out the disturbing scene.

Screams. They echo loudly and suddenly in my ear. My head is forced up and turns. Another window towers over me, and my own body greets my eyes, lying lifeless in Wyatt's arms as he screams, pain radiating from his voice.

I wake up abruptly, uncomfortably hot and drenched in sweat. I turn my head to the side and see Wyatt asleep beside me, then overcome with nausea, I lean over the edge of the bed and throw up.

Wyatt sits up. "Max," he says between forced gasps, "Maxwell, I'm sor—oh my God. Gross."

"I'm okay," I say, my head somewhere else. "Wyatt, I think those were real people."