by Amy Solus
Chapter 9
I’d like to let you know that I do realize I probably sound crazy right about now. It’s because I probably am and I’m just not interested in fighting it anymore. Sometimes good things come from craziness, other times not so much. Let’s just hope it’s one of those good times.
The other inmates think I’m crazy too. It’s kind of entertaining to watch them glance over and raise their eyebrows at me. It’s probably due to the fact that I’m sitting alone smiling. I guess that does sort of make me crazy-- it’s certainly not the right way to be behaving if you have a good ol’ clear mind.
But really, I feel like if you’re just sitting there acting as normal as you possibly can, you’re probably adding quite a bit of stress to that brain of yours and that definitely cannot be good for your sanity. But really, I am not a psychiatrist and I really don’t know, so you should probably stop listening to me if you’re trying to diagnose a condition you may or may not have.
Great. Just great. I can’t stop saying “but really” in my head. Sometimes I wish I could just put a mute button on my brain for a while. I could just lie somewhere staring up at the clouds and not think of anything, just let my senses feel open and tranquil. That would be quite nice. Or maybe I could use a sleeping pill or a very powerful sedative. Or maybe I just need a very good night’s sleep. Maybe even a high powered tranquilizer.
Strangely enough, it is kind of entertaining to count how many times you say a phrase in your head in a day. Just yesterday, I counted how many times I said, “Wow, really?” in my head. Horrifyingly enough, I said it one hundred and forty-two times, all in one day. I felt sort of like those teenage girls who, while giving a speech in front of a class, say “like” after, like, every, like, word; the ones who force you to send an annoyed sideways glance at your nearest friend. I guess I am a hypocrite too, but at least I admit my flaws and carry on with my life unlike the rest of the population.
When I sit in my cell, counting the numerous scratches carved into the rough surface that should be my cell floor, I start to wonder who sat here before me. I wonder if they wondered who was in this cell even before them. It really is an incredible thing, human life. We’re all so uniquely different, yet so similar; like a million shades of green that have just a tinge of another color in them.
As I trace one of the larger scratches with my finger, I think to myself. What would cause a person to go so mad as to attempt to claw their way through the cement floor of their prison cell?
They must’ve been very desperate.
But here I am again, not looking deep enough into this. Maybe, just maybe, this is yet another thing the government created to frighten us. Just maybe all of the cells are like this. They want us to expect ourselves to be lost to madness. They want us to do all the work ourselves. Oh, that good old lazy government of ours.
I guess I’m just a cynic, but it really seems like cynicism is one of two reasons I’m still alive today. (The first, of course, being sarcasm.) Better to be thought of as a crazy person than to be a “normal” person and get herded to the butcher’s chopping block like a sheep.
Once again, I move my finger up and down one of the deeper scratches and I notice a very important detail I had not noticed before. The divot left by whatever had put this here was, in fact, completely smooth. Therefore, if a person had scratched into this cement-like floor, the lines wouldn’t be perfectly round within; nobody’s fingernails are that tough or perfect. So there we go, yet another trick the man tried to trick me with, but at least this time I was smart enough to catch on before he sent a team of guys chasing after me through a town.
So really, the government isn’t as scary as they make themselves out to be. They’re just a haughty pack of deceivers. The people rightfully have the power, so they should be afraid of us. I remember hearing about the propaganda back when I was reading about dictators in school and how they would make themselves sound like the next messiah, when in all reality they were the crappiest of the crap. People in power have a knack for not being all that honest-- all us citizens have to do is believe them, and then we are thrust into a new world that’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
As I stare down at the scratches, I feel a sense of hate that overwhelms me. I want to scream. All the government has ever done to me and everybody else is lie. They think they can get away with it and be looked upon like they’re all mighty kings. I feel like I need to spit, like I need to punch something, like I need to destroy something of theirs. All they’ve ever done is take.
I need to take back what’s rightfully mine.
The day slowly comes to a halt as we’re called out for our dinners. I walk through the cellblock hall with my hands in my pockets and I glance around, wondering if I’ll ever see my two friends again. I realize now, all of the faces I see are familiar. I’ve hardly ever spoken to them, but yet I know each of them.
I see the African American woman who has a cell next to me, I see a girl who had been friends with the girl who was shot, and I see a friend of the sassy-mean girl. It’s interesting-- you think you need to talk to someone to know them, but in fact I think it’s much more useful to watch a person. You learn quite a bit through mannerisms and how people hold themselves.
There’s still that dismal little sheet of mist hanging throughout the air as I walk onto the dirt that is our cafeteria and recess area all in one. My feet sink into the dirt, which I notice has now turned into a viscous mud, and a rather grayish-yellowish-looking mud at that. I cringe as it seeps through the thin soles of my shoes.
No sunlight seeps through the clouds, so it looks like it is dusk or early night. The clouds are dark and look as though they could let out a hard downpour at any moment. I look down at the ground, where my eyes have been spending the most time lately, but then I hear something I very seldom hear.
I hear multiple people shriek with delight. Wait... Delight? My head shoots up and I look around, seeing what everybody is so excited about. Then I finally understand. There in front of us stand all of the girls who had been taken away. I smile, scanning through them to find the redhead and the quiet dark-skinned girl.
But as quickly as my hope is rekindled, it fades away again. I don’t see either of them. They seem to be the only two missing. I scan through the crowd multiple times, hoping my eyes merely deceived me the time before. They aren’t there. I look back down at the ground again. I feel a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Through the mud, I walk to receive my dinner. I pick up my tray and head over to the table I had always sat at with my two friends. I sit down, feeling more alone than ever, but before I start to eat this pitiful little meal, I look up.
I see something that brings life back into my veins and that brings a sharp shock of happiness into my heart. As I look across the field, I see Mara standing there, or more like hunching there. She looks like she’s in pain, but nonetheless she is alive and that is certainly something to be thankful for.
She painstakingly walks across the field and goes to get her supper like the rest of the inmates. I don’t touch my food. I have so many things to ask and I can hardly contain myself as I wait for her to come and sit down across from me.
As she picks up her tray and starts to walk back towards the tables, I make eye contact with her and wave, excited to see someone I actually care to be around, but then she does something I hadn’t expected.
She looks away and sits down at another table.
I look back down at my food and catch a fly nibbling on my roll. I swat it away, and look back up again, confused and ashamed. Why would she ignore me? What’s happened to her?
But then I take in account a fact I had disregarded since I saw her walking back. There was a sort of void to her left, and I hadn’t thought it through when I first saw her.
Taylor is missing.
