Doing Time

This story is by Sarah Cress and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

If only I hadn’t thrown away the key.

In a fit of anger, I rashly hurled my ticket out of this prison at my jailer’s big head. Now it’s gone and I’m stuck here. Forever.

My cell is colored in the shades of isolation; stark and bleak. A sagging bed and dejected desk are tucked into the room’s corners; shadowy monsters in the dismal gloom. My eyes are drawn to hideous clothing lying atop the sheets. Its blaring orange hue and sharp military folds taunt me. There’s no window and dim artificial lights flicker and buzz from the low, tired ceiling. The air tastes stale and is rank with musty sweat.

How could they do this to me? Isn’t my sentence enough? Do they enjoy tormenting their victims?

This isn’t anybody’s fault except yours, a familiar and obnoxious voice whispers. It’s soft but relentless. Each word grinds against my ears.

Shoving the voice away, I examine my quarters again. Maybe I’m suffering from short term hallucinations. Unfortunately, my eyes are in perfect working order.

This has to be a sick joke. A bit of twisted humor at my expense. They wouldn’t leave me like this. Would they?

You can play their silly mind games, my pride reminds me. You got this. No sweat.

“No sweat,” I repeat, tossing the clothes to the floor and sprawling out on the bed.

Screech!

I flinch as the springs fiercely protest my weight, expecting the bed to buckle with each ear-splitting outcry. Tentatively I close my eyes, preparing to sleep through the first hours of solitude. Seconds later they fly open; I’m too tense to relax.

This can’t be happening. It wasn’t as if I committed a murder! I don’t deserve jail time, much less this barbaric punishment.

Solitary confinement. The words are sour on my tongue. This is clearly an overreaction. I’d received warnings before, but I thought they were all bark and no bite.

My frustration builds as I relive the injustice of my judge and jury. They didn’t bother listening to my explanation. Instead, they blabbered about responsibility and consequences and tossed me in the slammer to rot! Images of the stern, cold-eyed judge flicker before my eyes. He is joined by the disapproving and merciless jury.

My volatile temper nears its eruption point. Breathing heavily, I leap from the bed to release my rising fury. The floor’s sedimentary filth grates against my bare feet as I pace restlessly. This is unbelievable! My rage explodes and I repeatedly hurl myself at the walls which hold me captive.

Thud! “Stupid prison!”

Slam! “Stupid isolation!”

Thump! “Stupid life!”

I continue my tirade, peppering it with punches and vivid vocabulary. By the end, I’m exhausted with nothing to show for my exertion except a throbbing foot and sore knuckles.

I stumble to the cell barrier. “Let me out.” I plead, my voice cracking.

No answer.

“Please! Let me out!” I sob, pounding desperately at the door. “Please! Just let me out! Please!”

Silence.

Resentment mingles with despair and I lash out at the bed with my uninjured foot. Agony flares in both feet and I collapse to the unforgiving ground to nurse my aching appendages and bruised ego.

If only I hadn’t thrown away the key.

Time passes slowly. At least, I think it does. There’s no clock so I can’t measure the eternity left to my sentence. I exist in a mindless monotony.

A voice from the outside world frees my mind from its shackles. It’s the first sound I’ve heard in ages.

“What are we having for lunch?”

My stomach gurgles to life at my jailer’s words. When was the last time I ate? I vaguely recall a breakfast on the morning of my captivity. How long has passed since? Hours? Days? Time is a meaningless blur. Have they forgotten me? Should I ask for food?

Idiot! Can’t you see that they want you to beg? My ego berates me harshly. Don’t let them use your weakness against you!

But food! My gut counters. As in chow, rations, vittles, sustenance-

You’re pathetic! My pride rebukes. Do you hear me? Pathetic!

Don’t you love the crunch of chips? Ooh! And the threads of oozing cheese on a pizza? How about the tender toughness of a steak?

I can’t take it anymore.

“Hello?”

Traitor! My pride hisses.

No response.

“Can’t we forgive and forget? It’s time to move on, don’t you think?”

Nothing.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, inwardly cringing. Can I sound any more insincere? “Come on! I’ll do anything. Just let me out.”

I’m dying! Rumbles my gut.

“You know I can’t do that, Jesse. You have to pay the consequences for your actions.”

I roll my eyes. Preachy. “But-”

“No buts.”

“Come on!” I slam my fists against the door. “Let me out!”

There’s only the quiet patter of feet abandoning me to my misery.

My stomach collapses into sobs. My pride is dying an agonizing death by a thousand pinpricks.

If only I hadn’t thrown away the key.

It’s strange being so alone. It’s just me, myself, and I. For the first time I see myself without the masks; raw and vulnerable. I’m not a fan of the real me.

Hesitant thoughts of escape rear their heads but are quickly decapitated. There’s no escaping this cell. In my foolish pride, I threw away the key because I thought I was tougher than isolation. If only life came with an undo button.

You know you deserve to be here. You screwed up big time. The little voice is back and I’m almost grateful for my rumbling gut; it drowns out the condemning speech.

Yet, somewhere in my stonewalled heart, I know the voice is right. I deserve this. I should take my medicine like a man.

My pride swoops in again. You’re giving up? PATHETIC! WEAK!

My gut subsides with a despairing moan.

If only I hadn’t thrown away the key.

An eternity later, I hit the bottom. I’m desperate for entertainment to divert my mind from my stomach, which is screaming bloody murder. I’m even willing to read that dumb antique from classic literature my teacher assigned as homework. Great Exposition by someone-or-other Dickens?

That doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe I should have paid attention in class.

Listlessly, I stumble to the bed. Depression weighs my body down and I crumble onto the complaining mattress.

I will not cry.

Men do not cry.

Self-pity overrides my defenses and I wallow in my predicament. Alone, hungry, and no way out.

There is a way, the tiny voice reminds me. There’s always a way.

Shut up! My pride responds immediately.

Click!

Raising my head at the unexpected noise, I gawk at the jailer’s hand slipping back through the door. He’s left me a gift. My way out. My second chance. My key.

No! Don’t give in! Don’t let them win. My pride flares. I feel like fighting again. I will never give in, never!

But I’m hungry! My stomach whimpers and my resolve dribbles away with a pitiful plop.

Don’t let them use your weakness against you! What is food? Food is-

Everything! Food is everything! I’ve never heard my stomach so furious.

It’s the right thing to do. The little voice encourages persistently.

I almost tune it out when a thought strikes me. Where has ignoring the voice landed me exactly? Solitary confinement, that’s where. Maybe it’s time to finally listen.

“Speak up little guy,” I encourage the voice. “What should I do?”

Get to work, it tells me. Make things right.

Yes! My stomach roars.

No! Forget it! My vanity screeches. You’re weak! A quitter!

No. It takes real strength to admit you’re wrong. My conscience replies steadily.

Swallowing my pride, I stagger over and pick up my key. It’s bent from the impact of missing the jailer’s head and crashing into the wall.

“Alright, little guy. Let’s do this.” Taking a deep breath, I remove the first page from the folder.

*

Outside the door, the guards listen to the rustle of paper. The relieved woman turns to her male companion.

“I didn’t think Jesse would ever do his homework. It’s been five hours!”

“Nothing hits a teenage boy harder than hunger and a little boredom,” replies her husband.

“Do you think we were too hard on him?” Jesse’s mother asks. “Excluding the fact we locked him in the basement bedroom.”

“No,” he chuckles. “He’s been testing our patience for months.”

“Why didn’t you give him his homework back sooner?”

“He threw it at me. He had to learn the consequences of his actions.”

“He missed, honey. And he sounded so desperate.”

“He gets his sense of drama from you.”

The woman smiles but her eyes linger on the locked door uneasily.

“Don’t worry honey. Jesse will be fine. I guarantee it.” He starts to stroll away. “Oh and hon?”

“Yes, dear?”

“When Jesse’s finished, burn that ugly orange t-shirt, would you? He’s not in prison after all.”