BEHIND THESE BARS
Behind these bars, my fingers trace the rust of my primitive bunk. My sheets are made of cotton-sewn paper. My pillow is a small lump awaiting more fiber to fill the void. A cheap wool blanket covers only half of the desolate rectangle of rust where I lay. I climb into bed and turn toward the brick wall. I graze my calloused fingertips across the cool wall. The holes in the cement appear red and orange from the condensation of old rust. I pull my face close to the rusted spots and I sniff.
"Boy, if you don't get off yer ass and help me with this runnin' board, you best know you'll find yer home out in the dog house." Papa's godforsaken truck always had something wrong with it. The rust was making the running board collapse from the side. Please…as if he didn't have enough power to get himself up into the truck without it. He always found enough strength to hit Mama each time she came out of the house saying that supper was ready.
"Does it look like we're ready to eat, Carol? Go back inside that house, make yourself useful, and clean the damn mess you started with." Mama stared down at the distressed wood paneling that gave us splinters when we walked barefoot, the same front porch that Papa always claimed to repair but never did.
"Did you hear me, girl? Get in that house while me and my boy actually do work." He threw his right arm into the air while holding the wrench that Pops gave him for his twenty-sixth birthday.
"Worthless piece of shit," he mumbled under his breath.
I stared at Papa the same way I did the time he received that wrench. His face was much calmer then, and he didn't have as many coarse strands growing on his face. He owned a five o'clock shadow that he was able to construct intricately each time he picked up his blade.
I was six when he got that wrench, and he seemed a lot happier then, perhaps because his belly wasn't filled with the aged Schlitz that he kept stocked in the back pantry. His happiness existed only ten years ago.
I pull my face away from the bitter, dreadful brick and stare at the ceiling praying to God for forgiveness. Tears roll down my face.
"Man, get off. You really think you getting out of this? Murder is murder, and ain't nobody gonna forgive what you did. Period." Jones looks at me, his eyelids drooping. He folds his arms behind his head and crosses his legs at the end of his bunk, smirking. Dents and holes fill his cheeks, and bruises mark the countless times he attempted fence parole.
I pretend to ignore him, and I tell God to do the same. My thoughts are interrupted by the guards. "Sir, we've got three-five-zero-eight-three–I repeat three-five-zero-eight-three–coming into the herd."
I stand anxiously on my feet. I look outside of the square box resting my hands on steel bars as wide as my thumb. We are a hallway of peering eyes. Suddenly, two hollow gray eyes are gawking directly into mine. They seem familiar, red and stinging from the veins that web each eyeball. My paranoia is interrupted by the man who is suddenly standing in front of Gray Eyes.
"Inmates, prepare for inspection," one of the guards says.
There are two other guards on the right side of the large-bellied one, and a patrol officer behind them, too. They open the first barred door that allows entry to the second door made of steel, with the little box for Gray Eyes to stare out of.
The guards rush through the door together, quickly and nervously. My palms begin to sweat. Gray Eyes is bent over, facing the wall adjacent to his cell, with one of the guards pushing his neck nearly to the floor. The fat guard looks my way and smirks at me, that same smirk Papa would give me after giving Mama a beating in the back room.
"Boy, if there is ever something you should know, it's that women ain't nothing good but for cookin', cleanin', and lovin'. They are worthless pieces of shit, and they ain't never gonna make the money ‘round here. You understand me, boy?" Papa steadily scolded at me while grabbing a Schlitz from the back pantry. He sat on his old, stained rocker in front of the television.
"Yes, Papa," I responded to him.
"Good. I'm glad you get what I tell you. You ain't as worthless as I thought you was," he snarled.
I sat on the floor and looked at the picture hanging on the wall. I stared at the boy in the blue shirt with the mud-caked shorts. He was holding a stick. He smiled graciously despite a couple of missing teeth. His hair fell across his forehead, just above his eyebrows. There I was, standing next to him. I had a sincere smile, but my mouth was only partially open. I wasn't as happy as Dean, and I didn't understand where he found the sincerity in things, especially when Papa raged. I didn't and I still don't.
Then I looked at Mama who was standing in a white, red-flowered dress that hung right below her knees. Her hair was pinned up with brown curls that fell just past her perfect little ears. She always wore her gold medallion earrings that reflected anything that shimmered. Her smile was as big as Dean's.
Dean's sincerity only lasted so long, then he ran away down the old dirt road, and no one ever caught sight of him. Mama had been deprived of Dean since. He was her first son, and he was gone.
"Don't even think about doing what that boy did," Papa said under his breath. He looked at me. I couldn't tell if he was looking directly at my eyes because of the glare of the television. I just knew he was looking my way. He was onto his second Schlitz since beating Mama in the back room.
He moved his foot beneath the rocker, where he kept his shotgun. He looked down at it, then at me. I began grinding my teeth.
"Inmate three-five-zero-eight-three, do you know what this is?" The guard with the large belly walks over to Gray Eyes. Gray Eyes turns and looks at the photograph, and he mumbles something under his breath.
"What's that, boy?" the large-bellied guard asks. I feel goosebumps down my spine.
"Why that's m-m-my, that's my wi-wi-wife, sir."
The guard looks up at the other two guards with a sneering smile. He has a mustache that is improperly trimmed. Each time he speaks, he eats his mustache hair.
"You hear that, men? That's his wife," the guard says. They all fall into a burst of laughter, slapping their knees.
"His wife!" one of them cries, laughing so much he can't catch his breath.
"Good one, inmate," the bald guard says.
I look at Gray Eyes. His head hangs, but veins protrude from his forehead. He looks over at me. His lips are trembling.
"Boy, this ain't your wife. You really think she ain't whoring around? And you got another thing coming if you think you can keep this." The large-bellied guard pulls Gray Eyes up and throws him against the steel bars. Tears run down Gray Eyes' face. My heart begins to pound.
"I don't understand where you get off, Carol. You think that this kitchen is clean?" Papa asked.
"Yes, dear. I scrubbed the floors, don't you see?" Mama's eyes filled, and her mouth was beginning to droop. Her hands were facing outward at the floor, showing Papa her hard work. She was frightened; her fingers were quivering.
"This ain't clean. You get down on your knees and clean with this toothbrush, stupid whore." Papa threw the green toothbrush that she bought at Hank's General Store at Mama's stomach. I stood there, watching Mama, as I did every time Papa attacked her. I couldn't do anything. If I did, he would hit me like he did Mama and Dean. The toothbrush hit the floor.
"Hon, go into the other room for Mama, okay?" Mama said to me. She was crying, and mascara was running down her soft cheeks. I shook my head no.
Mama stood there for a few seconds, then fell to her knees and began sobbing. Drips of black were falling from her face onto the white ceramic tile of the kitchen floor. I heard her praying.
"God, I'm tired. I'm tired of being tired. Do something. I beg you," she cried.
Papa grabbed her by the arm and twisted it behind her back. He pinned her up against the wall so that her face was painting the purple paisley wallpaper. Her mascara left black designs on the wall.
"God ain't with you, Girl. You hear me?" Papa's fingers were tangled around Mama's upper arm. His fingers were grasped so tight, Mama's arm was starting to go purple. Papa didn't notice that I was standing there. I was crying. I looked down at my dirty feet, then at Mama's. I looked at her legs. They were once pure white skin. Only welts appeared on them now.
He turned her around, and roughly grabbed her neck. "Why do you make me this way?" Mama began coughing. Her face was turning shades of purple and red. I screamed.
"Papa, please stop!" I cried. Mama looked at me. Her emerald green eyes were turning brown. I couldn't see much more through my tears.
"Shut the hell up, boy," Papa screamed at me. He wasn't letting go of Mama this time. He often choked her, but it didn't last this long.
I looked back down at my dirty feet, full of mud and grass. I looked at my fingers and I webbed them together, like Dean and I used to do. I looked at Mama. She just stared into my eyes. She knew what was about to come, and I did too.
The guard notices Gray Eyes, his trembling lips, and his tears that are staining his tan uniform.
"You crying, boy? Crying? Ain't no crying around here." The large-bellied guard throws Gray Eyes onto the cold cement. He makes a yelping noise as his bony hip hits the ground. The guards surround Gray Eyes. They all take another look at the picture of his wife as they pass it around.
The bald guard crouches down to look at Gray Eyes.
"You see this? She ain't nothing but a worthless piece of shit." He stands up and begins ripping the photo into pieces. He rages and yells "whore" as he does it.
He nods his head to the other two guards.
"Plea-plea-please, sir. It's harmless. She ain-ain't nothing but a go-go-good woman to-to me," Gray Eyes struggles to stutter.
The large-bellied guard and the young guard begin kicking Gray Eyes, first his back and then his stomach. His body flies back and forth within his confined cell. His feet are going with the motions. He just lays there, unable to do anything against their strength. His eyes are starting to bruise, as blood pours onto the floor.
Gray Eyes looks at me. His eyes are getting darker and darker.
"Papa, please!" I screamed as he held Mama in the air.
I searched Mama's face; what little hope she had left was fading. My hands trembled and I looked to Papa's favorite spot. I ran into the room nearby and grabbed his shotgun. He and Mama hadn't noticed.
I ran back into the kitchen and stood behind Papa. His back was facing me, and Mama quickly glanced at me, then back down to the white ceramic tile. Papa had noticed her eye movement, and then cocked his head enough to see what I was doing. In the split second that he cocked his head, I cocked his shotgun. He stared into my eyes as I aimed.
Those were the same eyes that turned supper into a nightmare every night at the dinner table, the same eyes that filled the house with unbearable guilt, eyes that glinted as he hit Dean before he ran away.
I let my trembling finger pull the trigger, and Papa's hands released Mama's neck. I fell onto my back and looked at the cold rusted orange ceiling that Papa always claimed to work on, but never did.
Everything was beginning to blur, and I felt cold. Mama hovered over me and grabbed my face. She pulled me into her chest and sobbed. I looked past her left arm, and there he was lying on the ground peering up at the ceiling. His finger twitched, and he was gone. I looked back at Mama; rings of bruises covered her delicate neck.
Behind these bars, I just stand, looking at Gray Eyes. His body bruises purple and red. Blood flows from beneath his cracked skull. His eyes peer at the rust staining the ceiling. His finger twitches, and he is gone.
The guards walk out from the behind the bars, each of them glancing at me with a smirk. The last one, the large-bellied guard, stares into my eyes for a few short seconds. Then he nods his head and gives a snarling smirk. He smooths his shirt and wipes sweat from his forehead, feigning innocence. Just like that, the guards walk away.
Alexis Cunningham is a senior Political Science major who is minoring in English and Environmental Sciences. She enjoys incredibly long runs and black raspberry ice cream.
