In the Light of Day

It has been thirteen years. Thirteen long years, filled with growth and introspection as clear as cold water and just as refreshing. When I first arrived, I felt lost. Every face I met was new, every experience novel. How can one put into writing how much the last thirteen years have changed my body and soul? I am not the same person I was then. I’m now a little older, a little wiser, and I recognize my mistakes.

My childhood left much to be desired. My father, may he rest in peace, was a hard disciplinarian. Any perceived error brought his fist down on my head. A particular memory sticks to my ribs: I was nine, and after a full day of pulling weeds, I relaxed on the couch before dinner. My father came home and I remember feeling excited to show him the yard. But instead he took one look at my dirty cheeks and wrinkled pants sitting on the clean couch and he hit me so hard I flew back and hit the side table, knocking a tooth out. My mother cowered under his enormous shadow and failed to protect both herself and me, her only child. How can a boy learn to be a man under these conditions? How can a flower grow, even in sunlight, if it’s constantly being ground down by the heel of a boot?

His passing closed the door of daily beatings and opened the window of poverty. My tender mother coped like so many others by trying to find peace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. One day, she found the bottom as well as her peace. I buried her next to my father. As you can see, I was given no guidance during these formative years and was then left, abandoned, even, to fend for myself. Could you blame me for trying to find something that brings me joy and fulfillment? I don’t relay my traumatic upbringing to trigger an empathetic response. I’ve learned over these last thirteen years that I am solely responsible for my actions. Now that I am middle-aged, I’ve found that the passage of time softens your edges like a river stone.

I still remember that summer day. The morning started out overcast but the clouds burned off by ten am and the sky turned a violent blue by midday. There was a breeze in the air and the sweet smell of lavender floated through the brush and the children playing tag on the playground warmed me. It’s important to be so detailed. For you to understand, you need to feel like you are there with me.

I was walking down the same gravel path I always did, the one that carved through Jasper Park, through the large oak trees whose branches offered shade to a lonely meanderer. I know this park well, better than most, as its history is my own.

When I saw her, I knew. Perhaps she heard the crunching of gravel beneath my feet first. Perhaps she sensed another person was near. Perhaps we had a celestial connection, unseen by human eyes. When she saw me, she ran.

I laughed, for I love a game.

She did not know the trail as I did, and she unwittingly ran deeper into the trees. The beautiful park borders Jasper Forest, as you know, and the manicured trail turns wild quite quickly. Her long golden hair whipped about as she ran, looking back to see if I was still there. I was. I closed the distance between us quickly and in her distress, she fell, slamming her knees into the dirt, webbed with protruding roots. When she turned, I saw that her left kneecap cracked. I could see it swell, doing everything a body can to protect itself.

Could her body protect itself against me? I pondered this question before placing both hands around her neck. She fought back. Of course she did! It is instinctual to find air any way you can when your throat is closing. But I was steadfast in my grip and pressed my thumbs even harder against her windpipe.

Through the treetops, rays of sun shone down on us, as if heaven itself desired extra light on this show. The birds chirped madly and the creek a little farther down bubbled and gurgled. I could hear everything and nothing in this untamed corner of earth.

I never took my eyes off of hers, and right before her life faded from her eyes completely, there was a moment where the fear on her face reminded me of my mother’s. Delicious.

When it was over, I was rather tired, so I walked back through the trees, past the playground, and stopped at the diner across the street for my favorite meal: bacon cheeseburger, fries with ketchup, and a vanilla milkshake. Every bite was ecstasy. I tipped the server well and walked lackadaisically home, enjoying the breeze and the sunshine and a full stomach and tired muscles.

I bet you’re wondering if my introspection over these last thirteen years in state prison has given way to remorse? The answer is yes, I feel deep remorse over my actions that day. For if I had looked through the forest or paid more attention to the worn trail, I would have noticed someone ahead, who dove behind a tree and watched as I drained the life from Chloe Sanders with my bare hands. I feel remorse, for that man, who testified during the trial that he was on the other side of a ravine and therefore could do nothing for her, took a picture of me as I walked away and used that image to convict me. I’ve since learned from my mistakes.

Over these last thirteen years I have learned that the passage of time softens your edges like a river stone.

Except I am the river and you are the stone.

__

“Are you almost ready? The parole board needs your input,” the prison guard says as he peeks his head into my office.

“Just finished,” I reply, “I’ll follow you to the room.”

I fold up the letter I just read and place it in my jacket pocket with shaky hands. It is eight in the morning and Dennison Alcott, convicted felon and model inmate, is due any moment for a parole hearing. I flex my hands a few times to shake off any nerves, but the anxiety is still there. I’ve been assigned to his case as the state prison psychiatrist for the last two years. His sentence requires him to meet with me every week until release, and every week I try and fail to crack or even smudge his iron exterior. Every week he sits across from me and his eyes do not match his face. He smiles, makes small talk, charms, but his eyes are ferocious and hungry. My underarms begin to sweat and I’m worried the stains will soon become visible. I don’t want to show my own fear toward Dennison; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Julio, the guard, leads me into the sterile meeting room where one long table with six chairs sits above a desk. I enter first, expecting to be the last one there, but the room is empty. Before I can turn around and ask Julio where everyone is, an alarm sounds. The alarm. Every one of us knows this alarm.

Julio’s radio screams in a static frenzy. “Code red, I repeat code red!”

Julio and I look at each other in anguish and he reaches for his radio. We both know who this is about.

“Copy. Ayala here with Dr. Fife, what’s the status?” The alarm pounds in rhythm with my heartbeat.

“It’s Alcott! He’s made a run for it!” The voice on the radio shouts.

I want to be surprised, but my brain is still reeling from his letter that now feels heavy as lead in my pocket. How did it get on my desk anyway? It was there when I arrived and now I feel dizzy with the implications.

“Gwen,” Julio says my name a few times before I hear him. “We’ve got to go. Make a plan. I need to go with the other guards to secure the prison.”

He takes my arm and leads me down the corridor and into a protected area, made for situations like these. My colleagues are already in there, some looking scared, others mad, and some look even put out. I don’t care if anyone sees my sweat stains anymore.

We sit as comfortably as we can, stewing in our own thoughts for what feels like hours when I see Julio run up to the door. It has not even been five minutes.

“What is it?”, I ask, and he hands me a folded up paper, not unlike the letter I received this morning. I open it quickly and read the short note. Dread floods my body, drowning any other emotion.

I’ll see you soon, Dr. Fife.

He’s a man fond of games, and I have the unmistakable feeling I’ve unwillingly joined one of his.