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The midday sun streamed through the narrow bars of the cell block, casting long shadows and illuminating the small, cramped spaces inside each steel enclosure.
The air was thick with a mix of antiseptic and the faint smell of stale food, an aroma that had become all too familiar.
Since Erik had gotten to the point that he could no longer tolerate the presence of other prisoners, he now had his meals delivered to him in his cell.
Today it was some sort of sickly gray mystery meat, mashed potatoes, and a carton of milk. Erik picked at the food, more out of habit than hunger. He knew he should eat something, at least maybe the mashed potatoes.
They had been in jail for more than a month, and in that time he had lost an alarming amount of weight. At least 10 lbs, according to the scale that he was weighed on twice a week. Lyle tried to hide it, but Erik knew that he was worried about him.
Erik's knuckles were pale as he gripped the metal bar that separated him from Lyle, who looked more at ease, leaning back against the wall, his plate almost untouched. Since Erik stayed in his cell and had his meals brought to him, Lyle did, too.
“Erik,” Lyle said, moving across his cell to reach through the bars and touch Erik's hand. “Hey, Erik...you've got to eat something, okay? Do it for me. Please.”
Erik made a gagging sound. “I don't know if I can, Lyle, this food makes me sick! It's like when Dad used to use food as a punishment. He'd sit at the table and wouldn't let me leave until I ate every single bite of whatever slop Mom made.”
Lyle chuckled darkly. “I know, Erik. I was there.” He scoffed and leaned his head on the bars. “We had a nanny, and a housekeeper, but they didn't bother hiring a cook who actually knew what the fuck they were doing.”
“Yeah, Mom always thought she was Julia Child, or something. Remember how mad she got when Dad said there wasn't enough salt in the stew?”
Lyle was quiet. Erik realized that yeah, of course Lyle would remember that. It was his 13th birthday dinner, and when José had said there wasn't enough salt, Kitty had picked up the pot of stew, and dropped it on the floor.
Then, she had become hysterical, picking up every single plate and glass and throwing them at the wall. José had simply shrugged, got up from the table, and left.
Lyle and Erik had ducked under the table, clinging to each other. Kitty ransacked the dining room until her rage ran its course, and then wandered off. She left without even acknowledging her sons.
Lyle didn't realize that Erik was crying until he felt a wet drop fall on his knuckles. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey Erik, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry.”
“I know,” Erik whimpered. He wiped his eyes with his shirt tail. “I shouldn't have brought it up. What the fuck, Lyle, is there not even one good memory we have from our childhoods?!”
“Yeah,” Lyle said. “Well, for me, anyway. It was when you were born.”
When Erik was born, Lyle held him on his lap until his legs fell asleep. He read his favorite books to him, The Velveteen Rabbit and Goodnight, Moon.
He carried his baby brother all around the house, gave him his bottles, and later spoon fed him applesauce and peas. On holidays, Lyle liked to dress Erik before they went to church, putting on his little suits and buttoning up his jackets.
It was hard for Lyle to think about what it had been like, at three and nine and thirteen. The hours of rage and frustration, José and Kitty yelling at each other, yelling at him, yelling at Erik. All of the slammed doors, the voices lifted in anger.
Erik was crying again, silently, shaking with effort. He didn't want Lyle to hear him, to worry about him anymore than he already did. Erik sniffled and hesitantly let go of Lyle's hand.
“I guess I can at least eat the mashed potatoes.”