born to die

iii

The prison is even more intimidating today. I stand outside, calming myself before walking in. I am greeted by David and he takes me once more to the cells that are so unpleasantly familiar. The three prisoners sit in the exact same position as they had been the day before, and I cringe at the sight of the brown-haired boy. I nod at them, and sit down on the floor outside their cells. We don't exchange any words and I wait patiently, I don't know exactly what to say. Ideally, I would have asked them questions about their past, about what crimes they committed and why. Would they repeat their crimes if they were set free? Why, why not? What had made them change? So many questions fly around in my brain and I feel so frustrated that I can't just talk to them. This is ridiculous.

"So, where are you guys from?" I receive no answer, "Well, I'm from Long Island. I grew up in a small house on the coast and I used to have a dog called Betty but she died when she was thirteen because-"

"Stop talking." The brown-haired boy speaks up and his voice sounds hoarse. Like he's been screaming all night. I nod again, lowering my gaze. He intimidates me, even though he is the one behind bars. Why did I think that talking about my dog would in any way make them feel more comfortable with me?

"I used to have a dog," the lady sitting in the middle cell says. Both the brown haired boy and the man in the other cell look at her, disbelief in their eyes.

"Really? What breed?" I am desperate to continue the conversation.

"A Labrador," she says softly.

"Betty was a Golden Retriever, kind of the same breed right?"

"No. Completely different breeds. Golden retrievers have long hair and a Labrador has shorter hair and webbed feet for swimming. Labrador's come in three different colours: yellow, brown and black. Golden retrievers only come in one colour: golden." I am taken aback by her words, surprised that she knew so much about dogs. Me, the brown-haired boy and the man all look at the woman, shocked.

"How do you know all of this?" I ask, I am terrified the woman is going to snap again and shut off. I want to continue the conversation.

"When I was younger, I used to love dogs. I wanted to be a vet." She shrugs and gives a small smile. I see an opportunity and grab it.

"What do you guys like?" I look between the man and the brown-haired boy. The man mumbles something about cars and I nod. The conversation stiffens and we return to an awkward silence. I don't mind the silence, and the man and the woman - whom I learn are called Becca and John - seem less tense. I sit back against a column and feel rather content; I had spoken to them, if only for a little bit. Tomorrow will be better, and who knows, maybe in a week I might actually get to hear a few words out of the brown-haired boy. I check my phone and let out a gasp at the time, it was already past two. I grab my rucksack and my notepad and wave before leaving, happy with the way today's events have unfolded.

---

The next week passes in a blur. I begin talking to Becca more and more and I even hear her laugh at some funny comment I make. On the fourth day I sneak three Snickers bars into the prison and give one to Becca and John, but the brown-haired boy, whose name I still don't know, refuses to take it. So I leave it in front of his cell where he can easily reach it. I come back from the bathroom a while later and smile when I realise there is an empty wrapper where the chocolate bar used to be. We still haven't talked, but this changes one rainy day around a week and a half later when I walk into the  prison with my headphones plugged into my ears. I am listening to some old song I hadn't heard in ages and I say a soft 'good morning' to Becca and John. I had learnt to not pay attention to the brown haired boy, he is better off left alone, I have concluded. But even if I don't talk to him or include him the conversations with the other two, I am always looking at him, looking at the way his eyes dart back and forth from one end of the corridor to the other, sometimes resting on me quickly before returning to fidgeting with his hands or looking up at the ceiling.