Discoveries | TMR | Three

5:5

The harsh sunlight beats down upon him, the beads of sweat on his torso magnifying the scorching heat of the sun, but he doesn't mind. In fact, he welcomes it; the heat. The noise of other young adults racing in his ears, the humidity collecting in his nostrils and fragments of sand polluting the back of his throat. Being outside has become a luxury that Travis didn't think he'd ever get to experience again.

Once a day, or once every few - depending on his and his bunk mates' behaviours - he and Frankie are allowed outside to congregate with the other subjects. It has been a week since either of them have acted up in a way that resulted in them being ostracised from the rest of those stuck here, and both Frankie and Travis are thankful that they've managed to stay out of enough trouble to be denied.

Imagine that, being denied the freedom of outdoors just because you've misbehaved, not answered a question truthfully, not been willing to take part in another test, or simply because you've spilt a tiny bit of soup on the floor of your cell. That is the reality that Travis and Frankie face; often lumped together as a team, as though spilling some soup was a joint effort to piss off the guards rather than a simple mistake of losing balance due to malnourishment.

It seems ludicrous that this is what their lives have come to, but bread crumbs will look like a feast to those who are starved, so here they are; soaking in the sun like they're never going to feel its rays raining down on their skin again.

Travis likens it to prison, or at least what he remembers prison being like in movies. A sandy field surrounded by towering concrete walls and fences that only lead to more concrete if climbed. He can remember his first day outside and wondering why there are fences there in the first place, but he quickly deduced that those thin frames of metal were only there to protect the guards from the prisoners - or the prisoners from the guards, as Frankie had said.

Honestly, he wouldn't be far off.

There are bleachers and benches dotted around the outer edges, a few picnic tables, a section with weights, a running track with a small tennis net in the centre. Travis often wondered why the exercising sections were there; it's not like these subjects are fit and healthy enough to use it, he had thought on his first day, but it didn't take long for him to realise that they were. Used, that is, by many of the other young adults in this compound. It turns out that Travis' mistreatment barely extended past Frankie.

"Yo, there she is again."

From his perch on the fake grass, laying spread out with only his elbows supporting his upper body, his eyes closed and head leant back, he raises it and looks through the windows at the opposite side of the pitch. Brenda is there; walking along the air conditioned corridor without a care in the world, donning a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard and paper that has fuck only knows what scribbled on it.

He's seen her a few times now, strutting around as though she owns the place, laughing with the other nurses and doctors, smiling brightly at the guards as she passes them, taking subjects from one place to the next, talking to Jorge. She looks professional, well kept, healthy. Her brown hair has not gotten any longer, still trimmed into that tight pixie cut that never seems to grow over her ears or down her forehead, unlike Travis', who's hair is a tangled and matted mess on top his head. Her eyes do not look sunken like his, her cheeks are not hollowed like his, her skin has not paled like his, and her overall demeanour has not seemed to shift into survival mode, like his.

"Fuckin' traitor, man."

Frankie does not like her. He makes that much obvious. At every opportunity, he allows his contempt for her to be as clear as a cloudless sky.

"Don't talk about her like that."

But Travis knows better.

People's perceptions are their reality, and so where Frankie sees a young woman's betrayal, Travis sees the picture she has painted for all to see, so that in time, she may use them as she sees fit. The laugh that is too loud and forced, the smile that is screwed on too tight, the chipper act that she plays to perfection, those eyes that burn with a seething hatred every time she passes a member of staff... all of it is bullshit.