Into the Dark

My new piece of fiction

Left, right, up, down, forward, back…

I’m still here.

My legs move. If anyone could see me they’d probably think I’m doing a spastic dance or that something’s wrong.

More wrong than what’s already wrong.

I mean, at this point I’d be grateful if I saw anyone. Even if they were looking at me like I’m crazy.

I’m not crazy.

Anyway, it’s my morning routine.

I know it’s morning because the tray has a bowl of cereal. Breakfast foods come in the morning, or that’s what I assume anyway. I get two trays a day — one with cereal and one with a sandwich. The corn flakes are always soggy, as well as the cheap bread on my bologna sandwich.

But it’s something.

It’d be easier to eat if there was some light. It’s dark all the time, except when the flap opens under the door. Then I can see the food, but only for five Mississippi's — sometimes four.

How the hell am I supposed to eat with only five seconds of light?

I mean, I’ve gotten pretty good at it, if I do say so myself, but that’s beside the point. The point is, I’m still a human being and I deserve to at least see the damn cell I’m living in.

Are the walls white? Black? Blue? All I can see is the tray with the six inches of light for ten seconds a day.

I need to get used to it. There’s gotta be at least another month before the trial.

But then what?

The way I see it, there’s only two options — either I lie and end up in the nuthouse, or I tell the truth and get thrown back in here.

Not much of a choice. But at the same time, too much.

What’s the lesser evil?

I thought I knew. Walked in, or more aptly got thrown in, 21 trays ago. For the first six trays, all I could think about was Mary, so I didn’t really care what happened to me.

Was she safe? Would she live? Was she already dead?

It all changed when I heard the guards. Right when they slid tray 7 under the door.

“Second-degree murder…”

Murder.

That’s all I needed to hear to know I was shit out of luck.

Lawyer says I wasn’t responsible for my actions. He’s wrong. I should’ve saved her, but I was too damn weak. Couldn’t even break the door down. Probably because I was coughing up a lung with all that smoke.

Still, it’s my fault. I deserve to be here, but it’s the worst kind of torture.

Is it still a lie if the dark ends up turning me crazy?

Must have spent too much time in my head, because there’s tray 28. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four–

I see the same pathetic bologna sandwich and grab it before the last Mississippi of light is gone.

Six bites — that’s all it takes. Now that dinner’s done, there’s nothing left to do but sleep. Ha!

Who am I kidding? I haven’t slept in years.

Back, forward, down, up, left, right…

My arms flail, but I’m in control. My night-time routine.

Time passes like a river of mud, but eventually I fall asleep. I wake up to tray 29. I don’t see it, but when I roll over to stretch, my foot knocks over the bowl and I feel the not-so-cold milk spill over my toes.

Great. Now I’ve gotta either catch the guard at dinner or risk the swarm of ants coming back. I hate bugs. Almost as much as I hate the dark. But not as much as I hate fire.

There’s no use staying near this mess. I take ten strides backward, where I curl into a ball. I’ll just wait here for the mud to flow.

My eyes are closed, but I see Mary clearly. And our house. And the flames. I’m watching, waiting to find out what happened between there and here, but of course, the last thing I remember is the siren. After that it stops — like someone suddenly turned off a movie.

Will I ever know how it ends?

If I could just see it, maybe then it’d be over. The guards would drag me out of here and I’d know exactly what to say when I faced the jury. If only.

The door creaks open and I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I’ve seen the door actually open since–well since the time I figured out where I was.

I didn’t mean to break the guard’s nose before tray 1. I was just trying to make sure Mary got out in time. They wouldn’t tell me anything. Just kept yelling at me to shut up — that I caused enough trouble.

Boy, do I know it. But they had to know I tried my best. Broke down the door, ran through the smoke, almost got myself killed. All for what?

I’m not crazy. I just screwed up.

I tell myself this as the entire cell lights up.