P Kettleburn

I never bothered to make tally marks for my days in prison. I was in for life, so what did it matter? In truth, to see the dim lines on the dark, grimy walls of my cell would probably be unbearably depressing.

In the cell next to me, Stim did, though. He did everything. He made tally marks, pawed at the walls, tried to coerce the guards into giving him anything at all besides the plain gruel they brought once a day. It was fruitless.

Sometimes, for a short time, other cells in the block were occupied. Once a man lived in the cell across from me for almost a year – or at least, I think it was almost a year. Like I said, I’m not counting. But as always, he was eventually taken away, leaving only me and Stim.

One day, the hall door creaked open and the guards paraded someone new inside. At first I thought it was a dog, just for the way it whimpered and whined.

The guards threw the creature into the cell across from me, and one of them kicked it for good measure. “That’ll teach ya,” he growled.

Door shut and locked, the guards retreated upstairs once more, back to a place of warmth and light that I had nearly forgotten. The cell block was lit by a single torch, and if the timing was wrong, it would extinguish right after the guards brought the food and we’d spend almost a full day in complete darkness.

As soon as the guards were gone, the dog picked itself up off the floor. Except it wasn’t a dog, it was a boy. A young man of probably no more than twelve or thirteen, dressed in an odd hodge podge of rags and finery. He was thin, but not malnourished, though he soon would be. Dirt streaked his face, and it was unclear to me if his hair was actually the color of dust, or simply unclean. 

The whimpering had stopped. In fact, with the exception of his physical state, the boy looked completely unperturbed, as if he found himself imprisoned regularly.

He dusted himself off and, reaching behind his ear into his tangled mat of hair, pulled out something too small for me to see. Without paying me any mind, he moved to the cell door and went to work on the lock. Miraculously, in a matter of seconds, it clicked open.

I stared as the boy walked confidently past me towards the stairwell door through which he had entered only minutes before.

I willed myself to speak, but I was generally out of practice. Something else was holding me back as well, and with a shock I realized it was pride. This youth had managed in mere seconds what I, a full grown man, could not achieve in years. Furthermore, he held all the power. I could ask for release and he could deny it.

I fought against myself, wondering if I was so foolish as to not even bother to ask, when Stim spoke up.

“Boy!” He exclaimed, hands clasped tightly around the bars of his cell. “Let me out, too!”

The youth turned, as if seeing Stim for the first time. He tilted his head.

“What’re you in for?” the child asked. His voice was just as you’d expect – petite, dainty, a long way to go from a man’s voice.

Stim’s eyes gleamed in the torch light. “Tax evasion,” he said smoothly.

The boy’s eyebrows raised a fraction. He turned to me, jabbing his thumb back at Stim. “What’s he in for?” he asked me.

“Murder,” I answered. It was almost an understatement – Stim had killed tens of people with his bare hands.

The boy didn’t seem surprised by this news. “And you? What’re you in for?”

“Also murder.” And also an understatement.

A hint of a smile played on the boy’s lips. Darting forward, he quickly worked the same magic on my lock with the trinket still hidden in his palm. An instant later my door was open, and I stepped into the hallway in disbelief.

The boy headed to the exit once more, and Stim called out, “What about me?”

The youth ignored him, beginning his work on this last lock. Stim yelled more persistently, shaking the bars. “If we’re both murderers, why release him and not me?”

The boy turned, a stern expression on his face. “Because you’re a liar. And that’s worse.”

He left Stim howling in protest and heaved the prison door open.

“This way,” he said. There were three hallways to choose from at the top of the stairs, but the youth went confidently towards the right. He didn’t take care to keep quiet, and in fact didn’t seem to worry about guards at all. Although I didn’t share the sentiment, we made it through without being bothered.

“Wouldn’t you feel better if I was in front?” I asked him after a moment. “Since I’m . . . well, since I could be dangerous?”

The boy glanced back at me, and the grin on his face made a shiver run through me. He faced the front again. I’d only seen his expression for a moment, but in it I could read a thousand truths. It was me who should be afraid of him.