Within the Cage

A short story following the relationship between a reporter and an inmate as the inmate slowly spirals into insanity while the reporter tries to make sense of it all.

“Excuse me?”

I cleared my throat. “I said, what will you do once you're out?”

He looked up at me, but only long enough to check if I had acknowledged the shrugging of his shoulders. His bald head hung low once more. I couldn't help but eye his appearance. Nothing but ragged clothes and an unwillingness to keep oneself neat. Such a shame.

“You know,” he said. “There isn't much to think about these days, so I'm sure it wouldn't surprise you that I ask myself that very same question each and every day. Someone as busy as you could not see that same pity, now could they?”

“The collapse of one's nation isn't exactly petty work,” I replied. He cleared his throat, but only to laugh, though I couldn't put my finger on what exactly it was he found so entertaining. Not to say that one can't keep themselves sane in such morbid conditions, but for someone even of his stature, that behavior is quite rude.

I found myself standing, almost hovering over the shadow that sat still on his cot, head still hung low. The dripping water and sounds of vermin may not have bothered him anymore, but they were not my idea of comfort.

“Haven't you asked to get that pipe fixed?” I asked. He didn't even bother to reply.

There was no shame in hiding it; I did not want to be there. This was punishment for screwing up the Anderson Co. story, obviously. A story of national importance pops up and I would be all over it, but of course they pay no mind to it. The Anderson story was relevant. Well, it was recent. Recent is a better word for it. I suppose there is only so much news you could have on violence. Then again, that hasn't stopped that same kind of writing appearing on headlines daily for the past several hundred years.

“They aren't paying you for this, are they?” Cutting off my train of thought doesn't seem to be below him.

“I mean, you aren't really doing a good job. I could interview the cracks in the wall better than you can interview an actual person. And I heard about that story you did on those deaf soldiers. They couldn't hear you, but damn did you try to spin them a yarn.”

I tried to relax. I was better than to stoop down to his level. I cleared my throat again. “If you don't mind me asking-”

“Oh, now you mind? How awful of me to think otherwise,” he said.

“If you don't mind me asking, how does it make you feel that you will be released on the fortieth anniversary of the beginning of the war?”

“Anniversary? Are we having a party, too?” he joked.

“No wonder you've been here for thirty-five years. Good behavior must be beyond you.” I patted down the wrinkles on my skirt as I stared him down.

“It must be. You know, we could have a great Burgener session if you have the time. You'll never guess what animal I'm thinking of.” he said with a grin.

He got up. At first I thought he was going to try and reach through the bars, but instead he casually turned on his heel and walked off to the back wall of his cell. His scummy sneaker came off with little effort and out of it slid a small shank. I took a step back from the bars, but all he did was dig into the concrete. Up and down the shank went along the wall, etching deeper and deeper a crude line only defined by the leftover dust. He then turned back around, put the shank back under his foot, and sat back down on his cot. The man hung his head low again as if he had not budged since I walked in.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“It's a counter. Every time I amuse myself I take note of it.” he said.

I could barely decipher the scratches from the rest of the grisly wall. Maybe a few dozen, if I was seeing it correctly. At least it gave him something to do.

A few months later, I returned to see my friend again. The gusts of the midnight air blew the indifferent rain into spouts, torturing the leaves that could only cling to their branches with whatever little stems they had. As I walked up to the front gates, I could not decide if enduring the elements was a better decision.

His voice rattled through the hallway as I approached his cell. Pairs of eyes bounded around the darkness of a few cells. Others had lights on, but nothing to look at. The rest were just empty, though a few individuals did reside in them nonetheless.

“I hope you brought food this time.” he said with several bouts coughing. His sleeve became temporary relief through the spasm, but before long I got to get another look at his face. Bags hung below his bloodshot eyes. His head was still shaved.

“I'm the reporter, remember? We talked not too long ago.” I said, reaching my hand through the bars. He looked up at me with the gaze of a beaten animal. My hand retracted back to safety, as did his attention. He was laying down on his cot unlike last time, solely concentrated on the patter of the rain against the window. The flimsy glass was surprisingly stable, but not very welcoming, as to shatter it would only bring cold pillars of iron.

The random bursts of lightning were the only solace from the continuous darkness he was relaxing in. I spent quite a few moments trying to read the back wall. The few dozen scratches had multiplied to several hundred.

“Please,” he said, “sit and get comfortable. They only bring this kind of entertainment once every week or so.”

I obliged, though the chair was anything but comfortable. I assumed the white shirt he was wearing was the same white shirt he was wearing last time. Not that it mattered.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked. I think he nodded. “What made you do it?”

He continued to lay there, the misty window only drew more of his attention. I tried again, but was cut off by the booming thunder out in the distance.

“I'll keep asking if you don't-”

“I didn't do anything.” he said.

“I'm sorry? You didn't do anything? You could have hurt a lot of people!” I said, raising myself from the chair. His head rolled back to bring his glare to my attention. I sat back down.

“Relatively, no, I did not do anything.”

“And how do you figure that?” I shouted, raising myself from the chair in a fit of undeniable fury. His head only rolled back towards the direction of the window as another burst of lightning shot through the sky. I sat back down and he turned towards me once again.

“Let me rephrase,” he said. “I did not do anything warranting this,” his palm opened and arm slowly casting it around the room. “ I'm sure you think I did, but in the process, and take note of this as it is an interview, I saved lives, too.”

I wanted to scold him, but I couldn't. There was no point. By the time I had mustered the courage to sit back down again, the passion within me forcing me up off of it, he had already settled himself back onto his cot. It was so dark in the cell that I could no longer tell whether or not he had his eyes open. He didn't stir when I left the chair. He must have been sleeping.

“Time's up!” a voice yelled from down the hallway. “It's nine thirty, let's get a move on.”

“I was just leaving,” I said as I passed the police officer holding the door that opened into the cell area. It slammed awkwardly, the hinges barely able to keep the huge iron mass from falling upon us.

“If you keep coming back, I may just give you some sort of pass so you don't have to keep checking in. How many times have you been here? I can't imagine that the guy is a gold mine of information,” said the officer.

“Considering he is the one being released, it should be common sense to assume the best information will be coming from him.”

“Still, he's only being released. Big deal. He'll be back soon enough.”

“And why do you think that?” I asked.

“Lady, I've been working here for almost thirty years and there hasn't been one soul that has left this place that hasn't put a few more blemishes on their records once out. Hell, most of these guys here now have had stays back when I first joined the force.” he said.

“He's different.”

“What?”

“Him. He's different.”

The officer laughed. “Different? Yeah, as different as every other crack addict, arson, murderer and thief in here. Maybe he's different because he draws on the walls, but that's about it.”

I walked towards the iron door. “Let me back in.”

“I just took you out. Visiting hours are over. You can't just go back in.” he explained.

“Just for a minute. Please?” I said, a button accidentally becoming undone from my blouse. The officer did not budge for quite a while after another button met the same fate. A buzzer cleared the room of silence and the door was unlatched. I winked at him as I walked back into towards the cells. He warned of my time being limited, and as he began to yell out to me I cringed and quickly refastened the buttons.

I approached his cell. The lightning was still flashing. The rain still soaked the window. He was now on his side, but his head was still tilted towards the world outside. I could see the whites of his eyes now, but only enough to know he was still awake.

“I have one last question,” I said. He ignored my inquiry. I sat down in the chair. “Please, I don't have much time.”

He rolled to the edge of the cot, a distance not very far but was traveled in what seemed like an eternity with the speed the man managed. He moved like a sloth, taking unnecessarily long amounts of time to move each and every one of his limbs. As I became nervous that my time was about to run out, he finally found himself sitting at the edge of the cot. His head still hung low.

“They have visiting hours for a reason,” he said. His voice scratched against my earlobes. “I don't want to waste any of your time either, as I'm sure you need to start writing that article.” He grinned until he was taken back by another fit of coughing. Still, he kept a slight smile through it and attempted to take his shoe off in the duration. Its rubber sole clapped against the hard concrete of the floor and out popped the rusty, metal shank he kept there. He frowned and made nothing of it.

I cleared my throat several times. He looked like he was becoming uneasy. I couldn't find the write words for it. He began to lay down back on the cot, albeit quicker than how he made his way to the edge of it.

“Remember that trip we took out to Mnemo Beach with my parents?” I gazed at him. He stirred.

“I remember how we had to move the tents up the beach more because the water was closing in on us. If you weren't such a light sleeper, we would've been soaked.” I chuckled a bit as I finished. I quickly corrected myself.

He stared at me. Not so much of a twitch came about him. He still stared at me.

“Don't you miss that?”

The lightning flashed again, and so did his eyes. They darted back towards the window as he slouched deeper into the cot. I didn't mind the slamming of the door as I walked out.

-------

“Do you think he's going to be okay?” I asked the officer cleaning the cell. Well, cleaning probably isn't the best word for it. He was actually throwing away most of what was in there.

“He'll be checked out before he's released. All of these guys have to, but him especially.”

I peered into the cell, which was unusually bright for it being so late in the afternoon. The last bits of sunlight struggled to keep a presence between the concrete walls. The cell was bare, not like it was a luxurious getaway beforehand. All that remained was his cot, still sunken a bit in the middle in the form of a person's back. The floor was without scraps, the walls without drips of water, even the pipes were cleaned up just enough to keep anyone from sneezing.

My eyes darted to the back of the wall. He must have spent hours at that wall; almost the entire wall was filled with scratches. The newer ones at the bottom were weak and shallow, completely opposite of the bold marks near the ceiling. Those were less organized and almost just scratched anywhere, but as the floor approached, so did sleek columns and rows.

“Was he okay when he left?” I asked.

“He was his usual self, just staring at the window, doing absolutely nothing. He was at that wall quite a lot, giggling and chuckling to himself. Half of us thought he was trying to draw something. It all just ended up being tallies or something.”

I sat down on the chair, the last thing the officer would end up moving before the next person would be moved into their new abode. The officer turned to leave the cell, his trash bin almost completely full. He motioned for me to get up, swiping the chair with his free hand just as I left it. As we both walked out, the last ray of light faded away from the cell. And his home was dark once again.

Author's Note

I submitted this to the Writer's Digest writing contest this year, but since I figured I'd get started on writing this, I wanted to get some opinions on it. I'd love to further advance my writing skills, so please, any and all critique is welcome!

Reviews

[Francesca]

I honestly really liked this and I see a lot of potential in it. It's a great concept and I can tell you know how to set it up and you know where it's going. A part that confused me, however, was the paragraph about Anderson? I didn't understand that part. Other than that, there were a few typos but nothing big. It's a really great idea for a story and I hope you continue it.

[E Bacher Walsh]

I liked your writing style. It was crisp, to the point, kept my interest, and I could feel the emotion.