The Debt Collector

The city is wrapped in eternal layers of woolen coats that brace against the August winds but I have not felt winter against my skin for over ten years. The colder months are like a weighted blanket that sweep through the concrete buildings and entrap city folk inside the wind tunnels. I only know this from the times that I made the daily office commute. Braving the winter was something I despised and now only dream of. Any life beyond the confines of this cage is worth living. My hands clasp the metal railing as I watch the fragments of the city with squinted eyes. If the guards realised that I could catch a glimpse of life beyond prison, they would barricade the view. The only hour of daylight allowable is confined to a five-by-five square. But for a moment, I envisage myself in the city and am something beyond what the world thinks of me.

A whistle rings through my ears and the source is a security guard younger than myself. He is dressed in a polished navy uniform with hair as pin-straight as the expression on his face. Though I see through the disguise and witness the anxiety that infiltrates him from the inside. He is scared of me, why wouldn’t he be? I’m covered in blacked out tattoos and have gaping holes along my ears from where my expanders once were. An appearance that matches the crime I am convicted of - murder.

"Brazen, time to return to your cell," the guard yells.

"Guard, what’s your name?" I ask.

"Mouse."

"Next time, Mouse, you can speak to me humanely. I don't need a deafening whistle to grab my attention."

Mouse puckers his lips in thought and without another word cuffs my hands.

"I didn't do it, you know. I didn’t murder that man but at least I will die knowing I have a clear conscience.”

Mouse pauses to listen. Perhaps it is the crack in my voice or maybe it is his first day on the job. Nonetheless, my criminal reputation makes sense just from the look of me. My hands are cuffed behind my back, as I am escorted back to solitary confinement. My cell is at the prison's rear-end basement for those, like myself, who have been forgotten by the city. The only memory of my existence is a trail of newspaper articles exclaiming that “Brazen Gray has been sentenced to death row!” I'll never forget the cheering from inside the courtroom as my sentence was read aloud. Suddenly, my name was no longer my own but a national icon. A tear dribbles down the wrinkled skin of my inked face. I have hardly seen myself in the mirror in years but am sure the horror of my life has aged me well beyond thirty-six.

I ignore the silver tray of dinner - the sloppy pasta and dry bread is unappealing. If that is my final meal, I would rather gnaw on the imaginary idea of a Sunday roast, where I can savour the taste. I lie down against the steel-rod bed but sleep is difficult to summon beneath the fluorescent lights. When it does, the memory of that night floods in and it is more than a nightmare - Christmas Eve of 2005. The air smelled of liquor and Christmas hats lined the sidewalks. The commotion was inviting but I had a duty to attend. When I entered the apartment, there was a man surprised by my visit. We were strangers but business was business. I’d later come to learn his name was Dean and he owed an insurmountable amount of money to our leader. But time had run out and I was the debt collector. If Dean could not repay it that night, then I would escort him to the leader. The conversation played out - with begging and apologies, but that was not for me to judge. Dean gathered his belongings and that is when my memory ceases to exist. Almost as if I have jumped through a time loop. The next thing I know, I’m locked in a prison cell with no recollection of how he wound up dead.

I awake with bloodshot eyes. Sleep is a luxury, especially for me. Some say the lack of is turning me insane and maybe I agree. But one thing is for sure, the dark side of my mind awakens at night. The side that remembers what I cannot.

There is a cold tray of dinner in the corner of my cell, though I don’t remember when it arrived. The pasta is overcooked and falls apart in my mouth. It lacks salt and flavour but is substantial. I find myself complaining aloud but at least it fills the silence. Solitary confinement has its perks. I can pace my cell at night without a cellmate complaining about my talk of self-loathing. A guard walks past and shines a torch into my eyes.

"Brazen, what are you muttering about now?" he asks with a raised brow. His gentle nature and skinny stature is better built for a desk job.

"Rookie, I am in fact nocturnal."

He burrows a frown and searches the cell with his torch. "My name is Mouse. We have had this conversation already."

"I would remember someone telling me their name is mouse," I scoff.

Mouse's wet eyes glimmer and the pity in his face makes me want to gag. A rush of anger swells inside my stomach and if I had my God-given rights, I would plunge a knife into his chest just for the expression on his face. Just like I did that Christmas Eve, '05 - When Dean pulled a gun, I had no choice but to reach for the knife on his kitchen counter. His debt was now settled with his life to pay for it. I turned myself in, knowing I would be caught at some point, so I saved the cops the hassle. There I sat, on the floor of the apartment, waiting for the police.

"You would have been my next victim, Mouse," I say.

“Your attitude changed from earlier today. What happened to your innocent plea?”

I roll my eyes. “My answer depends on the time of day that you speak with me.”

I watch Mouse fold his arms as if trying to decipher my answers. But there is nothing more to understand.

“What’s wrong with you?” Mouse asks, bluntly.

I tap my temple. “Many things.”

As Mouse turns away, a plastic knife drops from his pocket. He doesn’t hear it clatter to the ground but I do. I slip my hands through the bars and grab hold of the flimsy weapon. The blunt tip presses against my finger and I hold onto it as I drift asleep.

The following morning rolls around and I feel as though I never slept. My eyes are encased in a puffy frame. I uncurl myself from the bed and feel a throb inside my hand. Looking down, I notice my fingers clutch onto a plastic knife and it has drawn blood. I pry my hand open and it drops to the ground. Frozen with fear, I think someone must have placed the knife in my hand. But the only culprit could be Mouse and he is too naive to construct a plan like that.

Mouse points to it and his eyes widen. “Kick it across to me.”

I do as I am told. “I don’t know where that came from, Mouse. It’s not mine.”

"There are two sides to you, Brazen. You’re a good actor.”

“As far as I know and as much as I remember, I am innocent. That leaves one plausible theory - I am living two separate realities. Mouse, you must believe me, nobody else does.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you are talking to a diagnosed schizophrenic and there are various versions of myself. I have no recollection of the crime and can only assume another version of myself is to be held accountable. My criminal reputation is tied to an alter personality. But not me, I’m a good person.”

Mouse looks stunned. “Do you remember our conversation last night?”

I stare back at him as if he is the crazy one. “What did I say?” I ask, my heart pounding in my chest. The answers are close even in my final hours.

“It’s time to go, Brazen,” Mouse replies.

Before I can attest, I am shackled and escorted out of my cell. For the last time, I walk past the courtyard and catch a glimpse of the city. Morning light peeks from between the clouds and today, the city folk do without woolen scarves and coats. It fills me with relief to know that the city is laid to rest. To know that I and all versions of me, will cease to exist.