This story is by Jessica Deen and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Troy knew who he was before he ended up in the digger.
Memories float through his mind while he stares at the ceiling, feeling springs from the stained, bare mattress poke into his back.
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At seven, dressed in his unwrinkled button-down shirt, his hair combed to the side, Troy came out of his room and was hit with the warm, yeasty smell of fresh bread. His stomach rumbled with the thought of spreading it with soft butter and strawberry jam when they returned from church.
Troy and his grandmother climbed in to her rusty green Chevy and rolled over potholes and well-worn gravel for five miles, the late autumn sun enough to warm the cab without turning on the heater. When they arrived, Troy jumped out of the truck and stood beside his grandmother, greeting the other parishioners just as she taught him. Walking up the front steps, his grandmother placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gave it a pat.
In the service, he sang the hymns, as he always did, hands behind his back and his eyes on his grandmother. She was doing as she always did, leaning forward, chin high, smiling and urging him on.
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Troy smiles thinking of her and reaches his hands over his head to stretch, striking the cold steel of his toilet. He can’t stretch any further.
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A month after his grandma passed away, Troy stood in his mom’s apartment on a Sunday morning. He was tired and moody. The music was too loud the night before and when he’d come out to ask them to turn it down, one of the greasy men reached a hairy arm to the stereo and cranked it. Laughter hung in the air as he slipped back down the hallway to cover his head with his pillow.
Clearing a small space of counter of the garbage and questionable contents that covered it’s surface, he popped his Wonder bread from the toaster and salvaged a small amount of margarine from a jar he found in the back of the fridge. Troy was humming when his mom stumbled into the kitchen, leaning over him and taking an elaborate sniff. He held his breath and turned his head away, unable to stomach the smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey or the sight of smudged mascara under her eyes.
She grabbed half of his toast and took a big bite. With her mouth full, she walked away, tossing her head over her shoulder to wink and say, “Thanks for breakfast, ya little jerk. And cut the humming. I got a headache.”
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Troy’s jaw tightens as he flings his legs over the side of his bed, coming face to face with bloodied, chipped paint on the block wall where he tried to record the days when he first arrived. It was an impossible task when the lights were always on and there was no window to see the sun come up.
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It was a damp, rainy recess. His eyes were downcast, staring at his pants that were too short and his shoes that were too big. The laces were pulled tight to keep them on his feet, but they were muddy and wearing thin from being tramped on. The top of his head was so tender from being knuckled that even the weight of his wet hat made him wince as he shuffled around the yard, waiting for the bell.
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In his cell, Troy walks three steps forward, turns around and walks three steps back.
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Tyler threw himself toward Troy, clinging to his legs, when he opened the door. Troy lifted him in the air and gave him a squeeze.
“I brought you some treats, buddy. Wanna help me put them away before we leave for school?”
“Sure! Whatcha get me? Can I see?”
Tyler was pulling at the bags as they walked through the door. Troy noticed his mom and step-dad sprawled out on pieces of furniture in the living room, unaware of Troy’s arrival.
When they entered the kitchen, Tyler grabbed the ashtrays, full and stinking, to dump them in the trash.
“Sorry, Troy. I meant to do that earlier. Before you got here, I mean.”
“No big deal, bud,” Troy said. He swallowed hard trying to wash down the knot forming in his throat. “Hey. Grab that bag and see what’s in there.”
Tyler dug into the bag and pulled out some fruit cups and vitamins, and a box of his favourite cereal. “Yes! You got my favourite kinds!” Tyler jumped up and down and Troy resisted the urge to calm him down so he didn’t wake up his parents. Troy’s heart felt light and warm in his chest when he saw Tyler smiling.
“Alright. Are you ready to head out?”
“Yep, I packed my bag last night. I’ll get it.”
On the way down to the car, Troy hugged his little brother to his side. Tyler stopped and looked at Troy and said, “When we get to your car, can I pick the songs on the way to school?”
“Always, my man.”
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Troy paces inside his small room, rummaging through memories of his time in jail, pursuing a hint about who he is now, in here. His thoughts are cut short by a warped, echoing attempt of another prisoner to communicate though the drain system. Troy’s instinct to respond is muted by past consequences, so he just listens. His shoulders slump when he thinks of the ridiculous question, “If a tree falls in the woods…”
The guards in the solitary confinement wing of the jail are prohibited from any interaction, verbal or physical, with the prisoners. They are instructed to hold their reactions and give no satisfaction to any inmate, even one just seeking simple validation of their existence.
A new set of memories force their way into Troy’s mind.
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A guard shoved his meal through the slot in his door as if it was a mail delivery, not at all requiring a hand to catch it on the other side to prevent it from spilling on the cell floor.
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Breathing heavier, Troy tries to slow his pulse.
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Desperate for some human contact, he slid his fingers under the door when he heard the keys jangling from a guard’s belt. The sound of the keys got closer until he was sure they were just outside his door. When he called out to the guard, they took their thick-soled boot and ground Troy’s fingers into the tiled floor. Troy screamed in pain. They kept walking.
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Troy closes his eyes. He chants a mantra in his head. “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
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The smell of disinfectant competed with the stench of urine and feces after his useless attempt at attention, while the guards hosed him down along with everything else in his cell.
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Slapping his hands against the walls, Troy howls. His vocal chords are out of practice and incapable of making sufficient sound. Rage is coursing through him. He’s trembling.
A small, sudden movement captures his attention.
He squints at a spider spinning a fine, intricate web in the corner of the ceiling.
Troy gets closer and, without thinking, severs one side of the web from the wall with his hand. At the sudden shift, the spider escapes to the secure side of the web and pauses, evaluating it’s next move.
Troy scoops the spider from where it’s hanging and holds it in his closed, hollow fist. He feels it moving in his palm, frantic. Troy opens his hand and studies it, fascinated by the reaction he caused. The spider runs up his forearm, seeking safety, sensing danger.
“It’s okay, little fella,” Troy croaked. His first thought had been to befriend the spider, speak to it like a human, maybe even feed it.
As a child would, Troy watches as the spider scampers from one hand to the other. With blood pumping hard in his veins, poisoned with angst, his upper lip curls into a sneer, baring his rotting teeth. For a brief moment, Troy’s in control.
Possessed with a power he’s never had, Troy plucks off one of it’s legs.
Troy is wide-eyed, staring at the leg pinched in his fingers. He compels himself to look at the creature, writhing in pain, trying to flee but resembling someone in a canoe with one paddle.
Tears spring into his eyes and bile rises in his throat. The adrenaline that fueled his actions just seconds before, abandons him. Turning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut, he whips the spider on the floor and feels the pop of it’s tender body under his own hand. The misery, for the spider, was over.
Feeling sick and disgusted, heartbroken for an opportunity squandered, Troy still doesn’t know who he is in jail. But now, at least, he knows what he’s not.
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