The Light

I was a terrible woman. It took me a long time to realize that, though, and I often cry, thinking about my hurtful life. I used to rage about my unjust punishment. Finally, partly to shut me up, they locked me in one of the most isolated cells, and eventually my rage quieted. I became too tired to do it, and with nothing else to occupy me, my brain had enough time to finally think. That, and the aid of others, helped me to finally see who I was, which was the very thing I was trying to eradicate—evil. Even though my helpers don’t use that word, it feels closest to the truth.

The laugh’s on me, though. It has to be. It certainly can’t be on my family, who’ve suffered so much for my actions. I was allowed one visit from my mother a few years ago. I think it was a few years ago, anyway; time can be a blur in here, but that’s what the guards said when they were kind enough to answer my question about it. And they’re kinder to me now that I can finally see who I’ve been. The chaplain and therapist have always been kind to me, though, and, really, they deserve most of the credit for my repentance. God, too, of course, but they are his hands and feet. 

They were patient with me, even though I used to attack them. I shudder thinking about it. I’ve tried to make restitution to them and the families of those I slaughtered. The tenth person I killed took a while to die, and I sat on the ground in front of them, watching. Foamy blood bubbled out of their mouth as they whispered pleas for help and claimed innocence. I smirked in response. Then, pissed when they again pleaded, I slit their throat, sat down again, and kept watching. Their thick, warm blood pooled toward me, and I stuck my finger in it, swirling it around. It reminded me of the cherry-flavored liquid candy mom would have bubbling on the stove when I was a kid. After swirling the blood, stopping myself from tasting it in domination and nostalgia, I smeared a stripe next to the others on my dad’s handkerchief I always had with me. He was killed long ago, and I thought that the people I’d attacked were responsible. After I finally repented, the chaplain let me dictate letters to the families of those I’d killed. I only received one back. “Go to hell” was all it said, and my heart sank. I’d desperately hoped for forgiveness, but as the chaplain helped me understand, needing forgiveness was selfish too.

I’ve done so many selfish things. And part of me feels guilty that I still kind of miss the handkerchief. They confiscated it when I was first arrested, and having that piece of my dad and the proof of my love for him taken from me was one of the main reasons I’d scream. It was my last tangible memory of him, and I’d tried to honor him with it—marking stripe after stripe of the blood of the ones I thought were evil. But what I so cherished and brought me such comfort, like a child with their teddy bear, was called a trophy of kills and put into evidence. Right now, I feel uneasy again, and some dark part of me wants to scream, but I have to stop myself. I have to remember what I’ve learned. I’m told I might have to remind myself for the rest of my life. The goals that the therapist sets for me have helped get me to this point, and he thinks that by continuing them, I’ll be one of his greatest success stories. Oh, I hope that’s true.

Thank you, Therapist; thank you, Chaplain; thank you, God. Without you, I wouldn’t be strong enough not to sink back into darkness.

***

“Mallory, you can come out now, honey.”

I was still trying to calm myself when I heard the chaplain’s voice on the other side of the door, and I started to cry—not from sorrow but relief. Sometimes, he seems to know when I need him, and suddenly, what hadn’t happened in maybe months (again, time’s a blur, and I’m not really sure how long things take) finally happened: my heavy cell door whined open, and faint light filtered in. I shielded my eyes from what little light there was, sobbed harder, and stumbled toward him, not able to stop myself from throwing my arms around his neck. 

“There, there, honey,” he said, as he told the guards it was okay. “And not only is this okay, Mallory, but everything’s gonna be okay.”

The way he looked at me made my heart leap in hope. “I don’t have to… stay in here anymore?” I started crying so hard that I could barely speak.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Just like we talked about might happen, the warden saw the letters you wrote, and he heard how sorrowful you are, how good you’re behaving. As long as you continue moving forward every day, you will have light, better food… well, better everything, really, and friends. You might not ever be free, but that isn’t set in stone either. Things can always change. You just keep trying and praying, okay? I’ll always be here helping you.”

My dirty fingers interlocked harder behind his neck, and I continued to cry as I tried to say, “Okay,” never wanting him to leave and terrified I was only dreaming. 

He gently patted my back. “Okay, now. That’s enough.” He handed me a clean handkerchief, and though I was briefly reminded of my dad, my happiness overshadowed the painful memories, and I smiled a little, realizing that seeing such a reminder wouldn’t always just bring sorrow.

“Come walk with me, dear.” 

My legs shook as we walked, him holding my arm. The glaring light from the fluorescents made me squint harder as we navigated hallway after hallway, finally standing in front of a door with a window. Through it was a courtyard with crisp blue sky and thick, dark grass. I instinctively put my hands on the glass, wanting to get as close to it all as possible.

He smiled and motioned toward the knob. “You can go out, Mallory.” I looked at him in disbelief and then at the guard for confirmation. The chaplain gently took my hand and placed it on the knob. “I promise, honey. It’s okay.” Trembling, I turned it, and he helped push the door open. Fresh, cool air enveloped me, and birds and human voices gently chattered in a soft, chaotic harmony as I continued to squint and tried to take it all in. 

As the chaplain helped me walk, the cool grass cushioned my bare soles and squished up between my toes. It felt better than anything had in my entire life. 

A breeze carrying floral scents reminded me of home as I heard a voice. “Hey there, you!” My therapist was at a picnic table, smiling brightly and waving. Summoning some strength, I ran to him as best as I could and hugged him. 

“Well, now! It’s great to see you too! You’ve made such wonderful progress; I’m very proud of you!” I smiled awkwardly, always uneasy about compliments, and sat down across from him as the chaplain sat beside him. 

A dainty yellow bird sang in a tree to my left, and I tried to hoard its beauty in my mind, in case this was a dream or, for some reason, what was promised wouldn’t come true. Watching it, I realized my nose was running from crying, and I tried to discreetly wipe it, hoping to not look as disgusting and unkempt as I felt. 

I tried to distract them from what I was doing. “I can’t believe I’m out here.”

“We can,” the therapist said. “We knew something was different about you all those years ago, and that it was only gonna take time to get to this point. You’re not like the other poor souls in your wing, who will likely never be paroled, let alone moved. Would you like to see a picture of your family?”

I eagerly nodded that I would. My family looked so happy that I gasped in surprise and my own happiness. But regret instantly dried up my joy. Having a murderer for a daughter and sister had almost killed them. It was hard for me to always see the positives in life, like my helpers wanted.

The chaplain looked at me with soft eyes as he absent-mindedly touched the cross on his necklace. “We’re looking forward now, dear. Not back. Crying is looking back.” I nodded and tried to obey as he continued. “The letters you’ve written them have helped them not have hate-filled hearts too. They forgive you; they forgive everyone. You’ve done so much good, Mallory. If only every inmate could be like you. And I sure hope we can get you out of here entirely someday.”

I so badly wanted to believe I might be released, but another part of me didn’t feel deserving of it. I always feel a tug-of-war in me about such things. As we talked, though, my mind became occupied, and I was able to think on other things, including the sunshine soaking into my pale gray skin, and as my helpers continued talking cheerfully, I let myself hope a little that I might look healthier soon. Comfortingly rubbing my arms, like I was coaxing in the sunshine, I inhaled the wonderful scents again, but as I squished my toes up and down in the grass, I looked at my feet and instantly tried to hide them.

The therapist cleared his throat. “Your new unit has a lovely place to clean yourself, Mal. No need for you to be ashamed. It’s the fault of the animals that kept you like this, anyway.” 

I can’t express how much it has always helped to feel cared for by at least two people. Even though they agreed that I should have been punished, they didn’t like the kind of punishment I received, and when I’m confused, I remind myself that they know best, since they’ve proved it to me over and over.

As I swung my legs, trying to not look back, the chaplain excused himself and returned with a sandwich and chocolate pudding. I hadn’t seen such food since before my arrest, and after he grinned and passed it to me, I grabbed the sandwich like the feral creature I felt like and stuffed what I could into my mouth. 

Seeing their shock, I realized I’d behaved rudely and slowed down. “I’m sorry.”

The therapist shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t apologize. It’s a shame you had to live so harshly for so long. Hopefully, one day, the practices here will change. Criminals need punishment, but torturing them should be illegal.”

Nodding, I lifted a spoonful of the creamy chocolate and smelled it. The scent reminded me of all the times Mom had made it, and I wondered if she still did. In the picture, she looked happy enough to be doing such a thing. And living in the daydream of those wonderful times with all my family, including my father, who always wanted two helpings, I took the spoon into my mouth and sighed at how blissful it tasted. 

As I swallowed, gunshots popped in the distance, and I tried not to flinch. I’d often heard them when I first arrived. The only good thing about my last cell was that it was too isolated to hear them. The chaplain bowed his head and crossed himself. After looking back up, his mouth and mournful eyes asked if he could lead us in prayer, which we eagerly agreed to.

“Dear Lord, 

We know your ways are true and right. 

Please help us all to understand them. Please help us all to live by them, as best as we can.

And please help all the inmates here to be like Mallory. Thank you for sending her and her family into our lives. They have been such blessings. 

And now, God, with your guidance and protection, please lead us forth to live honorably before you and help others know you as well, including the family of the poor soul who just left this earth. May your tender mercies and ways comfort them, and may we all walk in your light.

In your beloved name, God, thank you and amen.”

“Amen,” the therapist and I said in unison.

After finishing my food, we talked and laughed the afternoon away. All the while, I was still trying to comprehend that I wasn’t going back into the darkness. We had practiced for this; we’d worked so hard. And they’d never given up on me.

As the sun finally set, the bottom rim of sky was a blazing salmon pink. My dad and I had watched sunsets like this from his boat more times than I could count. He loved fishing, and he said that sometimes he felt like God had made those salmon-pink sunsets just for him and me. 

And not only did he love fishing, but he’d supported our family with it. When people tried to make him stop, saying another vocation would be better, he tried to reason with them that they were wrong. But when that didn’t work, he finally snapped and killed them. And this is the part I especially have to forgive him for; he used me to help him—even to the point that after he died, I carried his torch, killing far more than he had. 

And I was great at it, even more skilled than him because he had no teacher, and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. Or so I thought. What he was really doing was indoctrinating me. Some say he was abusing me, but I can’t take it that far.

I think he loved me and that he was only trying to do what he thought was right. 

And I can never hate him as so many others do. But I’ve learned he was wrong. Some in my country starve because of people like him, people who can’t cooperate with their leaders for the common good. My father didn’t have the education to know what was best; he didn’t have the intelligence or knowledge of history like the experts who are trying to better us. He shouldn’t have let his pride get in the way.

“Mal, dear. We better go in. Are you ready?” 

I thought of Dad and squeezed the handkerchief in my lap.

“Yes, sir.” 

“Oh, come now. I’ll have none of that. We’re friends.” 

I nodded.

Dusk settled heavily as we exited a metal gate and began down another path. 

As we did, floodlights blinked on, showcasing tall rectangular boxes.

“Can you look, Mal? I know this is hard for you, but it will help with your treatment.”

I nodded that I could. 

And I finally made myself.

Dad and so many others were preserved so well—reminders of what not to be. 

Part of me wanted to run to him and try to hold him. Another part wanted to hit him. But, ultimately, I just stood still and cried.

The therapist put his arm around me. “It’s okay. It’s understandable that you feel strong emotions. You have many special memories with him. But remember what you learned.” 

And I was crying because I did remember. I was crying for myself. I was crying for my dad and all the harm he caused—all the lives he ruined.

For so long I thought others were responsible for his death when he was.

Oh, Daddy, I thought, tears streaming down my face. If only you’d have listened. If only you’d believed. 

Catching my breath and breathing out slowly to lower my heart rate, something I’d been taught to calm myself, I looked into the eyes that were the same blue as mine and whispered: But I’ll do better for you and all of us. You didn’t know what you were doing. Or maybe you did and didn’t care. That’s what some say, but I can’t believe it. You just didn’t know; that’s what I’ll always think. And in my mind, we’ll have many more sunsets, and I’ll always be with you. I’ll always love you. And I’ll still carry your torch, but in a way you didn’t understand you should. And please, Daddy, oh please be proud of me.

After talking, I tried to run as best I could and kissed the glass as close as possible to his cheek. I was scared my helpers would be mad, but they only gently put a hand on my back.

After looking at Dad for as long as possible, and weak from so much walking, they helped me inside to a large, bright cell. Carpet cushioned my feet, clean clothes awaited me on the soft bed, and a window overlooking a pond graced the wall nearest my very own bathroom. 

My helpers were standing in the doorway, the therapist leaning against the casing. He tilted his head to the side and smiled. “We’ll see you in the morning, Mal. Okay?”

I turned and looked out at that dark blue pond and thought of Daddy’s eyes, forever open. 

And choosing to see that in the positive way I’d been taught, the way of light and hope, I realized that both of our eyes were open now, together, and I wiped mine again, and not looking back, turned, smiled, and nodded okay.