by Tiana Laveen
…And just like that, he’d once again predicted the future.
Several minutes later, he was sitting in a creaky wooden chair with an old payphone cradled under his chin and tucked tightly in the crevice of his neck. Static filled his ears as he spoke.
“I need her to call me back.” He sighed as he left his third message for the woman. “What the hell am I paying her for?!”
“Mr. Pike,” the receptionist stated, her tone void of inflection, care or concern. “She is very busy but will—”
“Busy? She’s about to get a shitload of free time if she keeps ignoring my goddamn calls. She has two hours to call me back. If she doesn’t, you let her know she’ll be fired. End of discussion.” And then, he simply hung up.
Bill stared at him, his thin lips pulled tight, his body tense.
“Take me back to the cell… I’m done here for now.”
Bill placed the restraints on his wrists with shaky hands. They marched back together, thick silence shoved between them, blocking off the air supply, making everything heavy and awkward. Soon, he was back in his cage, and the place seemed even colder than when he’d left it minutes earlier. It was a bit darker, void of anything virtuous and commendable. The door closed and locked before he could fully turn back around. Bill was on his way back up the hall and he stood there alone, minus the occasional wails and preposterous song lyrics recited from an inmate a few cells down.
Here he was with the hardened criminals, just one floor up … He could hear them, smell them, almost see them. They were the prisoners deemed too dangerous to let amongst the general population. Here he was with filthy animals, mostly black bastards who’d committed inconceivable crimes and sucked from the previously swollen tit of the country until the well had run dry. Here he was isolated by prison rules, forced into a precarious situation as he was surrounded by niggers and spics, all vying and dying to get a piece of him. Here, he’d fight day and night to simply stay alive. Therefore, Bill had to be taught a lesson. Not just for Bill’s sake, but to convince everyone within earshot.
No one is going to break me down in here. No one is going to win any battle against me. I will fight them all in my sleep if I have to… I’ll fight them and win, show no mercy.
His muscles tightened as he began to pace his cell. A few minutes later, he ripped off his shirt and got to the ground, grunting hard as he did a series of pushups, forcing himself to go further and further until his palms and arms begged for reprieve. But he pushed himself forward anyway, for pain was nothing but a mere sign of the weakness of the mind, when the body could do more, so much more, than the psyche ever believed.
So he endured… he continued… he maintained, never ceasing, never stopping, refusing to give in, give out, or give up…
WARDEN HUCKLEBERRY PEERED at the computer screen from between slightly spread fingers, his right ring one covered in a bandage that barely hung as the cheap adhesive no longer served its purpose. The footage was unnerving, unimaginable, damn near unbelievable.
“I’m still trying to figure out how the hell he did it!” He slapped his desk angrily, causing papers to fly here and there while three guards stood before him. “We keep Aaron away from the general populace. He can only make calls to his attorney. How the hell did he pull this off?!”
“I don’t know, sir,” one of them mumbled, but didn’t make direct eye contact.
“What do you mean you don’t know?! He’s just one man. You only had to watch one goddamn man!” He sighed and slowly pivoted in his seat as he ran his hand slowly down his face in utter disbelief. “No one down there is his friend. We made damn sure he was alone. We monitored his calls and letters but he did this even in seclusion!”
He focused on the scene. One hundred and twenty-three inmates stood from their seats, their backs to the camera, straight and stiff like wooden boards dried in the desert sun. Chins up, chests high, their arms at their sides, they refused to budge. A goddamn army, with a leader from afar…
Jason Wilkes, a well known white Nationalist originally from Birmingham, stood in front of the crowd, chanting, “Free Aaron Pike!” over and over, pumping his heavily tattooed fist as his voice carried through the place. The crowd of men began to roar and repeat the same words, charging the place like bulls hyped up on some illegal, hallucinogenic substance. They raged about, tossing things and yelling as the hardly anticipated mutiny soon ensued. It took what felt like a lifetime to get the place under control, wrapped up tight. Several officers had been assaulted in the mayhem, completely blind sighted by such an event.
“I’ve seen enough!” Warden Huckleberry announced, the thick repeat of his warm lunch roiling through his system and settling its thick flavor against the back of his tongue. He beat the keyboard with his fingertips and removed the video from sight. He’d seen the damn thing too many times to count.
“We have to do something about Aaron,” he huffed, leaning back in his seat as he ran his hand along his chest. “He’s a problem. He’s always been a problem. I tried to be proactive, give him a few allowances, but it’s not done any good and half of you ingrates are scared of ’im!” he roared, causing one of the guards to look sheepishly down at his shoes. “He feeds off it. He feeds off fear, absolutely loves it. I’ve dealt with him for years; I know how his brain works. He’s only served time twice here, both for just four months, but in that timeframe, he turned my entire prison upside down!
“Word has it he now has Bill doing errands for him! I was hoping Bill wouldn’t be swayed by the rumors, but he was broken down like a damn cardboard box in the rain!” He snorted and swiveled in his seat. The split, worn roach brown leather of his chair sighed under his weight as he moved about, trying to get his hands around the barb-wired covered situation.
“He is serving a year this time. If he serves his full sentence, that is a lot of time to do a lot of harm,” Nate, one of the more esteemed guards, stated.
“I’ve dealt with the likes of Aaron, Nate.” He tapped his desk with his engraved ink pen. “It’s like he’s got angels flying over him… No one can touch him, and he knows it. But this last incident, the way he beat that man… well, that set him up good. Only problem is, though he doesn’t show any regret or concern about it, he is still sayin’ it was self-defense, when at other times he has proudly claimed his offenses. So this is dragging things out… He’s going to appeal it. He’s never done that before.”
“That’s only because he got a year and not a slap on the hand this time.” He nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, and he has a lot of people do his handiwork while he’s locked up in here. He keeps his own hands clean and no one dares squeal on him. He has too much power.” He once again tasted the remainder of his lunch as his nerves kicked up again, making him sick to his damn stomach. “Any man that can rot in isolation and command this sort of reaction is a serious threat. Now…” Huckleberry slapped the desk, as if coming to a verdict. “We have to come up with something different this time around. We can’t bide our time; a year is much too long to hope and dream. We can’t ignore it for he will only get worse.”
“Like what? What do you expect us to do?” Nate grimaced, his billy club swaying against the side of his gray pant leg. “He ain’t gonna change, Boss. I’ve known Aaron from the first time he was in here. He is a ruthless motherfucker and when he tells you he is going to do something, he does it. No ifs, ands, or buts. He has absolutely no fear.”
“Everyone is scared of something, Nate.” He narrowed his eyes on the man, refusing to bow down to defeat. “Stop being such goddamn wimps! Aaron might not be afraid to get locked up, get into fights and all this other bullshit he is involved with, but we have to come up with another solution because everything else we’ve tried isn’t working.” He glanced down at his watch. “Look, I have a meeting in less than thirty minutes… we’ll discuss this more later. Don’t any of you say a goddamn word about this, do you hear me? The last thing we need is all the news people crawlin’ around here
like ants after sugar and callin’, blowing the phone up, accusing us of not having this shit under control.”
All of the men nodded in understanding.
“Go on, you all can leave now.” He shooed them out of the room, disgusted with himself for lack of a clear plan, and with their obvious dread of the man and Aaron for being such a goddamn, arrogant, worrisome prick. He lowered his head, and remained that way until the door closed and clicked behind them. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked around.
Aaron, I was hoping to never see your face in here after your last stay. Once again, you’ve brought a bunch of shit and mess with you… S.S. are your real initials in my book and they stand for ‘shit starter’. I want you out of this prison, and I want you out, now!
“ZION, LET’S TRY it again…” Mia Armstrong scooted her chair a bit closer to the eight-year-old, his light golden eyes glossy with confusion and untold pain. His small, slightly tanned hands tightened before he wrung them, shaking the damn things, and snapping his short, skinny fingers as if a strange beat that only he could hear played in the distance.
“I want to use the computer,” the boy repeated, avoiding eye contact as he began to slowly rock back and forth in his plastic baby blue chair.
“I know you do, Zion.” She wrapped her arm around his seat and offered a soft smile. “But right now, I need you to focus on this book.” She pointed down at the glossy page that depicted two children sitting on a playground seesaw with a math equation beneath the illustration.
“Don’t want to…” The boy’s nose wrinkled and he blinked over and over again. His rocking increased as his anxiety mounted. Like a quiet breeze, she brushed her hand along his shoulder blade, then softly cradled his crown, hand covering his ebony hair. Mia gave a gentle squeeze, then one more before sliding her palm away, and pointing back down to the page.
“Zion, can you read this math problem aloud for me?”
“No, no, no, no, no, no! I want to play on the computer, Ms. Armstrong! Right now! Right now!” he yelled, forcing the other children in the room to pause and look in their direction. The teacher’s aide, Mrs. Byrd, lifted her rounded chin a bit higher, her light brown eyes growing with unmentioned concern. Zion was a brilliant little boy, caught in a world of misunderstandings and unspoken perplexity. Mia glanced at Zion’s hands once more; his stimming increased, the finger snapping and shaking mounting to an all time high.
“Zion, I need you to—”
“No!!! Ahhhh!” He began to race around the room, knocking things about. Pausing, he wailed and screamed, crying out as if he’d been physically injured. Mia got to her feet and placed her hands up.
Come on Zion… Let’s not do this…
“Zion, come here please.”
“No!!! No!!! Go away! I hate you!”
“Zion… 3…2…1…” She held her hand up and counted down the numbers on her fingers, triggering him to focus. “That’s it… now come here. Right now, please,” she said a bit more sternly. The boy looked at her hand still in the air, her index finger serving as the numeral ‘one’. With cautious steps, he made his way over towards her. She raised her hand once more, and gently pulled him in a soft hug.
He began to squirm, so she held a bit tighter, restraining his arms.
“Do you need help?” Mrs. Byrd asked.
“No.” She vehemently shook her head as she rested her chin against his crown. “It’s fine…he is going to be okay. Isn’t that right, Zion?”
Like a gush of water turning into a slow drip, the boy winded down. His body fell limp against her as he gripped her hand and squeezed, seemingly craving her affection. She continued to hold him tight, rocking him back and forth, and humming the ‘Five Speckled Frogs’ nursery rhyme. After a few minutes, she slowly released him.
“Zion.” She turned his shoulders so he would face her. “I want you to just sit here, and take some deep breaths. Let’s count to three and take a deep breath, okay? Can you do that for me?”
The boy hesitated, indubitably mulling it over for consideration’s sake, then nodded.
“Okay, good. One…two…three.”
Zion inhaled on cue, held it for a second or two, and then blew out as if trying to usher a tiny paper sailboat across a lake.
“Very good. Let’s do it again, okay?”
He hesitated again then nodded. They repeated the familiar process one more time before sitting quietly while the other children gathered on the rug for a story.
“Now, let’s look at this book, okay?”
“…Okay,” he said softly.
“If John is holding a bag of ten apples while on the seesaw, and loses two, how many are left?”
“Eight.”
“Very good, Zion! If Jane is holding a bag of twelve peaches, and loses six, how many are left?”
“Six.”
“Wonderful! Okay, now this is a tricky one. If John and Jane put their remaining fruit together, how many apples and peaches do they have?”
“Fourteen.”
“Excellent! And lastly, how many apples and peaches are on the ground that they dropped, in total?”
“Eight.”
“High five!” She laughed loudly as she raised her hand in the air, waiting for him to accept the celebration in his honor. The boy smiled wide and placed his hand gently against her own. “Okay, let’s get up and go over and have a seat with the other children, then, right after I read the story of the day, you can play on the computer. Deal?”
Zion Benton gave her an uncertain gaze, then got to his feet. She took the boy by the hand and led him over to the carpeted area, boxed in by neatly placed paperbacks along brightly colored wooden shelves. The boy sat close to her as she took her seat, pulling at her sea green skirt just so as she crossed her legs. She picked up the hardbound book, “When Lions Roar”, by Robbie H. Harris, and cast her sights at all the children sitting there in her classroom. One frantically moved about, as if itching from the inside out. Another kept her eyes pressed firmly closed, vanishing in a world of her very own. Another held himself tightly, pinching the striped cotton fabric of his shirt along the way, as if needing a constant hug.
I love them all…
She didn’t see their disabilities; she saw their potential. She looked down at Zion once more; they met eyes and his cheeks warmed with a peachy glow as he smiled up at her, exposing several missing teeth.
Mia opened the book, and began to read.
“Thunder is booming! A big dog is barking…”
…And I hear all the children, even the ones that have no voice…
Chapter Two
DONNA HOOKS WAS a slippery fish that had gotten away. There she sat before Aaron with her auburn hair pulled back in a tousled ponytail. Wisps of curls that reminded him of illustrious, tawny smoke framed the sides of her face. Her mane particularly mesmerized him this particular day. Perhaps it was to assist in dulling his temperament, a focal point of sorts to calm his rising irritation. The ceiling lights of the small office area made the strands of her slightly crimped tresses glimmer just so, but the illumination appeared to miss her eyes. The damn things looked empty, swampy and evergreen, versus their usual vibrancy that he was accustomed to. Her feminine ways, kitten-like sighs and sweet perfume no longer lured him into a state of tranquility. This was business, and business and pleasure could no longer stand shoulder to shoulder, despite the fact that the woman had been side eyeing him from the moment he’d hired her.
“So.” She turned away from him and looked down at her phone yet again. “We are looking at around six months, and then we can petition the court.”
“Unacceptable.” He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “You are dragging this out.”
“I am not!” she protested, her brows dipping as her expression grew tight with angst.
“Yes, you are. You’re making things harder for me. Donna, you’re indolent and greedy. You want more money, right?”
Her lips parted, but no
words came out. Instead, a new display of astonishment washed over her face.
“Close your goddamn mouth,” he stated dryly as he reached over the table, causing the woman to jump in her dusky gray pantsuit. Her onyx beaded necklace swayed against her collarbone as she pulled back and away into a false sense of safety. Removing the burning butt from the ashtray, he placed the damn thing to his lips and narrowed his eyes on the lady. “I’ve let you get away with too much, made excuses for you. That’s over with. You’re fired.”
“Aaron!” She popped up from her seat, causing her papers to move about the table as if a calm breeze had touched them and agreed with all that was written. “You’re being emotional, childish.”
“Am I?” He laughed lightly as he blew out smoke and leisurely crossed one leg over the other. “That’s easy for you to say when you’re sittin’ over there,” he pointed at her, “and I’m sittin’ over here.”
“Aaron, your case is complicated, okay? It is your word against Clarence’s friends and the witnesses. Not to mention, you don’t have an exactly squeaky clean reputation.” She leaned forward, exposing milky white cleavage that gave him brief pause.
“…And neither does he. I didn’t attack that nigger for no goddamn reason at all. When have I ever had an incident of just beating the fuck out of someone unprovoked, huh? I got better shit to do and better control over myself than that, counselor.” He winked at her. “I control everything…”
“Yes, I heard.” She grimaced as she began to gather her papers. “Whatever you are doing in here, stop it. You’re making it so much worse.”
“What are you talking about?” His smile quickly faded. “Wait, don’t tell me you believe that shit, too?”
“You’ve been busy.” She shoved a folder into her briefcase. “Two uprisings in the last week and a half, a racial assault, and a number of other incidents, all pointing right back to you.”
