Work Text:
They’re Hiding Something
Prison is a weird place. I know, not something you typically hear from a teenager. Getting arrested at sixteen usually leads to juvenile detention, at least I think so. Hard to tell anymore.
“Honey?” Mom knocked on the glass. I forgot she was there. There were times we could get visitors to meet with, like most prisons from what I’ve heard.
“Sorry, I zoned out,” I smiled, glancing up toward the corner of the room. The camera blinked expectedly at me. Every camera in this place constantly stared and listened, it was impossible to tell the truth to those who visited.
This place takes everyone of all backgrounds. There’s kids younger than me and people up to twenty-five, no one older though, from what I’ve noticed. You get used to it though, not dealing with older people and you get taken in by the older men. That’s the other thing. Over my time here I haven't interacted with any women. They say this place takes in women but there aren’t any records of any, even from those who have been here the longest. Not sure why they lie. There has to be a reason.
“Honey!” Mom repeated. I must have zoned out again. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.
“Yeah. Sorry.” There wasn’t a lot of conviction in how I spoke, but Mom accepted it.
“Have they been treating you alright? It wasn’t fair that you got arrested and given such a long sentence.” Oh Mom, if only you knew the truth.
There was a fairly decent reason I was given a sentence, but that wasn’t the main thing. Like many high school boys, I rebelled. Drugs, alcohol, sex, you name it, I tried it. Each time I did something I wrote it down. Each time it got worse.
August 2, 2015. I was at a buddy’s house. It was the first time I tried anything hard core. As hard core as one could call a cigarette that almost made me throw up after trying at least.
November 18, 2015. The same buddy’s house. This time it was old Scotch he stole from his dad’s liquor cabinet, he didn’t lock it up. It felt good, I enjoyed it. It lasted a good couple hours, the euphoria. Then I had more. Told my parents I was staying at the buddy’s house because “We needed to finish something”.
December 4, 2015. The habits were getting closer together. I tried a cigarette again and held it in without throwing up. This time it was in my car. The car I spent so much time getting. I finished half the box. Chasing the euphoria that only this could give.
February 1, 2016. I managed to get my hands on something I can’t remember the name of. All I remember is taking too much of it and waking up in the hospital. It was going to be harder chasing a high now.
March 27, 2016. Out of that facility and now 15, I tried something new. Before, I wouldn’t have considered committing an actual crime, but now, it felt like a necessary thing to do to get that high I wanted. No, not wanted. That high I needed. It was mild petty theft, just stealing a chocolate bar, but it left me giddy, itching to do it again, or something worse.
It repeated for another year. Petty crimes. Pickpocketing from classmates. Getting high or drunk in my car. Then my birthday happened.
March 27, 2017. Sweet sixteen. Most kids usually expect something nice on their sweet sixteen. Not getting blackout drunk and waking up in a field a couple miles from home under a tree with the eyes of a dead guy above me. I had vague memories of what might have happened. Went out, maybe stole a little, came back home, had dinner, opened mediocre presents, went out again. Tidbits of flashing lights and loud music faded in. I must have gotten drunk again, but that didn’t explain the body, now did it? Some hiker called the police and I got arrested on possession of drugs as a minor, as you’d expect. That’s what they told my parents, but they didn’t add the fact I was found under a hanging dead body.
“They’re treating me fine, Mom,” I was looking at her when I spoke, “I’m sure they’ve just cracked down on drug charges in recent years.” That was partially true. Due to the fentanyl crisis, they had cracked down, but harder than they usually would. There were police officers and drug dogs everywhere at all times, like they were the military or something. Surveillance also went up. People thought by 2020 we’d have flying cars. We got more extreme drugs, and hard military-like crackdowns on regular people, especially younger people, mostly around those who were twelve to twenty-one. Those were the most common ages here in the prison I’ve been stuck in for two years. I missed my eighteenth birthday because of a mistake I started to make at fourteen. The mistake of chasing a high that would never stay long and that would hurt me in the long run.
“That’s good.” Mom said with a smile.
“It’s loud here, though. And cameras. Everywhere. We have no privacy, Mom.” Mom paused in front of me, I can remember her staring blankly.
“What?”
“There’s no women or people above twenty-five. Isn’t that the age most susceptible to the fentanyl crisis?” The guard behind me froze, I continued, “Haven’t you noticed the increased presence of military and police back home? Or the cameras? That’s not normal, there’s other towns and states that haven’t had to deal with this.” I stared at Mom.
Silence.
“Your visiting hours are done.” The guard grabbed my arm and Mom was still staring through the glass, the phone to her ear but her expression blank. I was dragged back out, the phone dropping, the cord straining. Mom stayed silent. When I turned back to her one last time, it was like she reset. As if we had a good conversation and not me trying to tell her the truth.
Thrown back into my cell, all I could do was stare at the reinforced door. Security was intense here, as if they were guarding and trained to stop monsters, not people who got here due to a struggle with drugs or crime.
There wasn’t much time before the lights would turn off and I’d wake up without the memory of what had happened the week prior, and of that whole conversation.
I’m sorry Mom. They’ve been testing new tactics to use on the people.
Worse is to come than just a teen waking up under the body of a boy killed by something we can’t comprehend. Something that they don’t want us to comprehend.
December 30, 2019.