Reasonable Doubt ✔ | Open Novella Contest 2020 | Complete

Six - Colt

A swish of paper glides under the cell door. I glance, see a letter for Alex. Grunting, I drape my arm over my eyes, wince when the stiches poke into my forehead. The laceration ain't even hurting anymore. I've half a mind to take the annoying threads out myself.

Except then Alex will stop touching to see if they're intact.

Stupid.

The instant his fingers alighted on the gash, something changed. Calling it a lightning strike is too dramatic. More the slow ripples of a leaf breaking a still pond. Like I'm waking from a deep sleep.

A fluke, right? I ain't felt anything since him. Frankly, I believed myself incapable of it.

Probably just the newness of a cellmate ignorant of my disease. He doesn't know to keep away from me. The illusion ain't been shattered yet.

Much as I hate to admit it, it's nice. This vague closeness, having someone worry. Someone with bright green eyes and scalding energy.

The door pops, slides. A slight breeze with the pressure change carries Alex's smell, the soft sound of his grumble as he stoops to retrieve the letter. I feign sleep, growling at the unbidden surge of excitement having him back.

I wonder what they went over in class. Some days he lets me help on equations, sit close enough that I can revel in the sparks of charisma I can feel but not see. Maybe he'll turn on the TV, watch the Spanish soap opera, let me observe the fascinating fireworks display in his gaze.

He hops up on the rack, tears open the letter. Silence, then a snarl. It precipitates an absolute hail of papers and documents from the top bunk. The culmination is the dense GED book full of doodles, the dull thud of knuckles punching cement.

There we go.

The snap. Everyone has it. I'm impressed he made it this long.

"You okay up there, ese?" I yawn.

His voice is tight. "Fine. Girlfriend sent me a Dear John letter."

I slide from the bunk, start arranging the papers. I don't know what put him here, but I imagine that blow couldn't have been welcomed.

"How do you feel about it?"

A glance at the bunk shows him bracing. Like he did that first day. His tone is venom and misery. "What are you, a fucking shrink?"

"Just asking about the mental status of my cellie."

"I don't know." He heaves in introspective derision. "Okay, I guess? I'm here for ten years. I can't be mad, right? I should let her live her life."

"Hold up. Ten years?" I stand from gathering papers, approach his bunk. "The fuck did you do?"

"Same as you," he grits, head under his waif of a pillow. "Murder.

No.

That ain't right. I've seen murderers. I am a murderer. We don't look like Alex. Part of us dies with our victim. Sanity, humanity, empathy...we sacrifice something.

"They gave you ten years for it?" I press. "First offense?"

A defeated shrug. "Drug deal gone bad."

There's more to this story. Something he ain't telling me. Something that still threatens to splinter him.

I shouldn't care, but I do. That eldritch, foreign thrum sounds again in my chest. The one that reminds me once again how different he is from everyone else in this place. He goes out of his way to share, check on me, check on others. A brilliant nova amid a black hole of chaos and strife.