Alone Together

"What are you doing?" Smitty asks.

"Quiet," I reply.

"I'm bored."

"Stop talking."

I look through the tiny cracks of light seeping through the mud-covered window. The sun peeks over the horizon, hiding like a kid from a bully. I don't blame it. If I didn't have to, I'd never go out. It's safer that way. For me and for everyone else.

Nothing in sight.

I exhale slowly as I twist the knob of the door.

"Come back soon, honey!" Smitty laughs.

I shake my head.

The rusty hinges creak until the door is wide open. I grab hold of a frayed piece of rope attached to a moss-covered plank of wood covering the entrance and yank on it. The wood scrapes along the metal track at the bottom, then bounces a little as it settles into place. It's rudimentary, but it does the trick.

The actual doorway is hidden behind this wall of rotting wood. From a casual passerby, it's like a natural part of the landscape. And the roof is worn and swampy green, matching the vegetation of the woods perfectly. No one, unless specifically looking for it, would be able to find my hideout.

I inspect the forest around me. It's quiet. This is either a good sign or a terrible one. I see no movement.

Good sign this time.

I shut the door and slide the homemade barn door back in place, leaving Smitty behind. I go about my daily activities: collect water from the creek, check traps, clean traps if needed, scavenge for food.

It's mundane, but it keeps my mind off everything else.

***

"Did you bring me anything?" Smitty asks as I walk back into the shed. I don't answer, but grab the piece of rope on the sliding door and tug on it hard. The camouflaged wooden barn door settles into place.

I shut the main door behind and lock it.

"Dude, I'm starving!" Smitty complains.

I try to ignore him.

"Hey you gotta at least feed me. Aren't there rules about how you treat prisoners or something?"

I shake my head. "You're not a prisoner."

He guffaws. "No? Then why do you have me locked behind metal bars?"

My eyes dart to the tiny cell in the corner of the shed. It's 3 feet by 5 feet. A large, silver lock dangles over the door. The cell was already here when I found this place. What it had been used for, I have no idea, but now it keeps Smitty in.

Smitty sits in the corner, clothes ripped, hair unkempt. His body has lost all muscle definition, leaving a flimsy replica of his former self. It's hard to see the kid I grew up with in there.

"They're to protect us," I mumble, hating myself as I say it.

He laughs even harder.

"Shut up!" I whisper. I look out the window, scared of what he might attract.

"Us? Then why aren't you locked up in here with me?"

"You know why."

He begins to say something, but I toss some scavenged, canned tuna at his feet. Without hesitation, he lunges toward the food, rips off the partially opened metal lid, and scarfs it down.

He breathes heavy like a boxer trying desperately to stay standing, but losing the fight. I look away. A palpable flood of guilt rushes over me.

This is all my fault.