On My Way Out

Once the guards are safely ensconced in their sadism (they’re tantalizing the mess hall with false promises of more bread), I sneak past them, hiding behind a laundry cart that one of the other inmates is pushing. Once out the door, I break into a run: I know it won’t be long before the guards notice I’m gone. The pilfered key ring in my pocket will give me access to a maintenance closet where I can replace my convict uniform; right now I stand out like a neon sign in a solar eclipse. Getting out of the hall was the easy part. From here on out, everything depends on my smarts and strength.

My mind spins rapidly as I navigate the labyrinthine hallways. The featureless walls, the sterilized smell, and the indifferent lighting taunt me relentlessly, their very bleakness an ominous prophecy. Defiantly, I force myself to focus. It’s taken me fifteen long years of agonizing patience to finally figure out how to get out of here, and now that I have my chance, those fifteen years end today. I’ve got to escape the invisible torments of this prison; maybe then I can escape my memories.

            I round a corner, then skid to a stop in surprise: a team of officers is walking toward me at the other end of the hall. You’re kidding me, I think. They’ve changed the guard schedules since last night? I size up the possibility of taking them on, but decide against it once I see the guns in their hands. The officers break into a run; I turn and sprint back down the hall.

            As my plan crumbles through my fingers, I wonder what I should do next. Right now I’m running toward the center of the building, away from exits and windows into the silent, austere condemnation of the walls. I begin to feel as though capture is inevitable; my triumphant plan has turned into a quagmire drawing me toward inexorable disaster. How could I have been so stupid? I can’t escape. I’ll never escape. My shoes pound the concrete floor, and I pound these thoughts back into the pit of my stomach.

Desperate now, I turn another corner and stop at the first door I see. My first key doesn’t fit, and neither does the second one. The officers’ drumming footsteps crescendo; I can hear them calling for reinforcements on their walkie-talkies. Success! The third key fits. I slip into the room and quietly close the door, leaving a thin crack for me to escape. The officers run past.

 “What do you think you’re doing in my room?” demands a terse voice behind me. I whirl around to face the speaker. He’s a tall, thin boy, in his early twenties, with short blond hair and the requisite zebra uniform.

“Keep it down, kid!” I hiss. “I’m on my way out.” I’m not sure if I’m ready to start running again, but the last thing I want to do is get stuck inside a cell with a volatile inmate.

Suddenly, the boy’s face goes white and his eyes turn into watermelons. “I know you,” he whispers.

 I stare at him. “What?” I snap. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

            “You killed my dad.” The boy’s voice wavers; his creased forehead and piercing gaze point an accusing finger.

            My face blanches as the feelings push out of my stomach and into my throat, but I instantly recover. “Listen, kid, I haven’t killed anybody’s dad,” I say, trying to keep a stone face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Name, Charles Franklin; height, five foot ten; birthday, October 9; birthplace, Eau Claire, Wisconsin.” The boy’s fists clench as he speaks, and fire lights his eyes.

            My jaw drops in spite of myself. This must be a nightmare, I think. “How do you know about me?” I ask.

            The boy snorts. “Have you really forgotten? You’re more callous than I thought. I was only five years old when you hit his car, but I never forgot. I memorized the news reports, I fed on the recording of your trial, and I spent the rest of my life storing up my hatred for the day I would meet you and make you pay.” The boy’s face is red, and he’s almost shouting now. “Even marijuana couldn’t erase the image of your face from my memory.”

Suddenly, the boy’s face goes slack and he lowers his fist. “And now you’re here.”

            My mental dam collapses into rubble as a torrent of thoughts, memories, pictures floods my mind. I hurriedly back up, my hand groping for the edge of the door. “Listen, kid—” I start, but there’s no way I can finish. I don’t care about being captured anymore, and I fling open the door and run into the howling of the hall. “Wait!” the boy calls, but I’m not waiting.

            I’m halfway down the hallway before I hear the footsteps behind me. It can’t be the boy, I think—but when I look behind me, I see another zebra uniform running through the sterilized halls. My thoughts run wildly. Why is he following me? Doesn’t he know my guilt has been following me long enough? The boy keeps calling for me to wait, but I redouble my speed.

“I forgive you,” calls the boy.

            What?

            “I forgive you,” calls the boy.

            For the first time in fifteen years, I break down. Brine inundates my eyes; my chest heaves with broken sobs. I can’t see through the flood, so I stop running and fall against the indifferent wall. As the boy runs up, I grab onto the first thought I can reach. “How?” I gasp. “How could you forgive me after what I did?”

The boy smiles sadly, and his face etches itself on my memory. “I’ve had to be forgiven too,” he says.

            A posse of officers runs down the hallway, tasers drawn. I’m handcuffed and marched across the prison to my new, tightly-secured cell. Before they push me inside, I’m searched; they find the ring of keys.

            The officer sneers. “I don’t think you’ll be needing these anymore.”

            I don’t answer, but I know he’s right. I already have the key to my cell.