The Wall - Extended version
I don't own Prison Break and I don't make any profit out of this.
All events and anything or anyone mentioned in this story are purely a product of fantasy and imagination. Any similarity to real events or persons is purely coincidental.
I also finally corrected the typos in my short story with the same name. The events similar to that one shot are going to figure somewhere in the middle of this longer story but they may unfold in a slightly different way or with different consequences.
1. The Job
11 April 2010
A conversation over the cell phone, routine recording by an automated system of an unnamed intelligence service in charge of national security, never used in practice because it doesn't contain any key words triggering further analysis or response.
"Kelly," (a raspy male voice with a slightest hint of trepidation in it) "he's awake. I'm so excited about it. We can finally get a go at it."
"Are you sure?"(a lazy female voice, very much unconcerned) "Isn't it just another false alarm of yours? Some wishful thinking to help you in your situation?"
"No. Come and see for yourself." (unmistakable excitement, elation, joy in the male voice)
"I've got all the intention to."
"What do I do in the meantime?"
"You'll just publish the add, I guess." (female voice, commanding) "The sooner, the better."
xxxxx
A job add published in several newspapers with national and regional coverage
"Doctor, general practitioner, with at least five years of clinical experience. Several positions available. Expertise with patients suffering from psychic or psychiatric conditions is desirable but not an absolute precondition to be invited for an interview. One year contract with possibility of extension in a new psychological ward of Saint Agatha Hospital, a recently founded medical facility for women and men seeking to restore the equilibrium in their lives. Situated at the driving distance from Helena, Montana, in a picturesque forest surroundings. Good working conditions, an interesting remuneration subject to agreement. Starting date, as soon as possible. Send your application to our management team led by the Chief Executive Officer, Ms Kelly Davis…"
xxxxxxx
It's been five years since his death and it should come to her easier with time.
It should.
Nonetheless, Sara is still pretty much unable to visit his grave this year, like every year, or to face other members of her extended family for that peculiar yearly reunion with a peaceful smile they are used to seeing on her face. The weather is lovely this April and little Mikey is already standing at the door, happy, beckoning her to come.
Yellow calla lilies are ready at hand.
She finds a face she needs on that day, deep in a place where she cultivates the necessary indifference in her soul.
The postman delivered the newspapers earlier that day. She never reads them. But on that day she always looks for the way out, for the impossible escape, and several odd job offers in distant places of the country are circled in red, like fresh blood stains on the spilled black ink. She doesn't know why she takes those too and dumps them on the back seat of the car when they go.
It is worse this year than it was before. Maybe because the day is entirely too beautiful or because she feels particularly alone. She is embarrassed when she kisses Mikey and lets him carry the yellow flowers to his father's grave. She is ashamed because as much as she adores her son, being a mother isn't enough on some days, on the anniversary of Michael's death most of all.
All it takes is one minute to make a difference between life and death.
A brief moment when she runs through the prison door because he tells her to do so, that second in which her hopes explode: she is free but her life is never quite the same.
She is a doctor but the more she thinks about it, the less she can accept on face value the diagnosis of an incurable brain tumor, recurring, to make it worse, as a valid reason why he did what he did. There are many doctors in the country, there are specialists in the world, to start with. And when they fail there are those weird people who eat the inside of the peach and apricot pits, jog endlessly every day, overdose on vitamin C and claim to get healthy from all that. She still doesn't believe in miracles, or in any of those supposedly natural ways of treatment, but if they could have helped him, she thinks that she could have started.
The decision comes easy to her when they are left alone in the car and she notices that she packed their most basic belongings and put them in the trunk. She doesn't even remember when she did that, or why. She fastens Mikey in the seat and tells him, trying to sound cheerful.
"We're going for a long ride."
"Where are we going, mom?" he asks her in his intelligent voice which only makes her want to cry, and her decision falter.
She always imagines Michael must have had that kind of voice when he was just a too smart kid, unaware of the future that expected him, before he was left alone with Lincoln. God knows what kind of cruel future expects her son. It's for the best not to think about it.
"To Montana," she says and starts the car, ignoring all the calls on her cell phone as the miles between her and the rest of the people who loved Michael slowly increase in number. They will all be returning shortly to other cities and countries where they live so why should Sara not be allowed to leave?
Only when they are half way across the country and she is looking for a motel to spend the night, she answers a single call from Lincoln.
"Yeah, I'm doing fine," she states. "It's just that I decided to accept this job."
She is lying. She hasn't yet applied for it. They may want someone else, with a better, cleaner CV, a physician with no history of substance abuse or falling in love with an inmate. On a positive side, she does have the experience of working in prison and that should count for something. Half of the convicts there suffered from some psychic trouble even if no one bothered to check them for it.
"Well," Lincoln tries to be positive, "that sounds great." And he fails miserably, in her opinion.
"Mikey is almost old enough to go to school, in some places," she says, failing even more miserably to justify her reasons, the ones that she is unable to outline rationally even to herself. A gut feeling. What good are those? A wish to make a break. Except that she should never use that word, or remember that it exists. Not even in her mind. Because if she does, she will turn into a nervous wreck, and both Mikey and her will get hurt when she crashes the car against some tree in a too high speed.
"He'll be five, I know," Lincoln keeps on trying. "Call me when you settle down. What is it, your job?"
"Guess what, I'll be a doctor. In some calm green looking hospital in a forest surroundings. Maybe there are also mountains nearby."
"Sounds like a nice place to visit. Where is it?"
She presses a few buttons on her cell phone, randomly, faking the loss of connection. She's unable to tell Lincoln at that moment that the clinic she may work in is in Montana. She'll have to think about how to tell them that later. Good people have died in Montana for no good reason at all.
She never knows why she kept one of the yellow flowers they were taking to Michael's grave. She has heard of traditions in some far away countries across the ocean, places she wanted to visit as a student in medical school and never did. She may still do it, one day, when Mikey grow up. There they say that the uneven number of flowers is for the living, and the even number for the dead. Now the number is uneven both with Michael, on his lonely grave, and on the dusty road with the two of them. She tells herself she kept it for the scent. The day is too warm. The aircon blowing dries up the air in the car too much, and occasionally she has to sneeze. Her vision gets blurred. The white line in the middle of the road unfolds steadily in the distance.
But the calla lilies are free of smell so she couldn't have kept it for that reason at all.
xxxxx
Another recorded conversation over the cell phone, later on the same day.
"Kelly," (not so deep male voice, arrogant, somewhat altered by an undefined emotion) "what do you think you're doing?"
"What does it look like?" (female voice, purposefully slow, mocking)
"She's been through enough!" (male voice, in righteous unstoppable anger, rising)
"Yeah," (female voice, cynical) "I heard part of it. I'll keep her alive, and with most of her body intact, I can promise you that. Unlike what you tried to do to her in that washroom. Was it in New Mexico? I always forget."
"Kelly, stop it, please!"
"Let me pull aside," (female voice, practical).
"Christ, are you driving?"
"I wouldn't mention the Lord if I were in your shoes. He may hear you and deal out his punishment…"
"You're on your way to Montana, aren't you?"
"Listen to me, Paul," (female voice, threatening) "you're out of my line of business now. Stick to the politics and trust the others to do the dirty work."
"Kelly! You can do so much better than that!"
"It's a bit too late to say that now, don't you think so, Paul?"
(beep of a phone conversation being cut off)
xxxxx
The phone rings again and the name written on it is so shocking that she switches the device off entirely. She never thought to hear from the congressman Paul Kellerman again, not after his rise in politics. She makes a mental note to change her number if by some miracle she does get that job and stays in Montana. She never did it before for sentimental reasons. As if Michael could ever call her again.
A stay in nature will do her good, she tries to believe in that. She never receives Paul's text message saying: "Don't even think of taking that job, Sara. You've got no idea what you're getting yourself into." The text returns to the sender, undelivered, lost in the virtual unreality of the electronic communications.
"Mom, I'm hungry," Mikey says, and Sara smiles for real.
And just like that the world is a bit better, a place where kids and their moms have to eat and maybe have a glass of milk to sleep better.
Sara, the mother, puts the yellow flower in her hair, amazed that it has not withered after a long drive. Well-armed with a gale of indestructible motherly love, she finally dares to dig out a pic of Michael Scofield from her wallet and stuck it in the flap of the sun visor on the inner side. That way she can see his face when she wishes, but not so directly. The visor is down because the evening is crawling closer, and the sun is getting lower, making driving more difficult and more pleasant at the same time. The car trots forward, and soon they will need gasoline, too. The blue-green eyes stare at her from the photo, immobile above a grey sweatshirt, almost of a Fox River edition. There would be only one thing possibly worse than losing Michael.
And that is if she had never met him at all.
xxxxxx
"How long has he been like this?" a slow female voice asks above his head, and a hollow male one hurries to provide a sensible answer. "Since this morning. Since last night, maybe. We didn't watch him permanently after five years of unchanged condition."
The confidence is missing, the man is scorned by a woman, clearly in charge of the matters as they stand: "Nor will you do it now. Not directly at least. Only from a distance. He should not know."
"If he can hear you now, than he already knows."
"He can't hear me yet."
"If you say so, Kelly," the male voice is suspicious. "You are the surgeon."
But he does hear them just like under one of his eyelids he sees the long surface of a clear blue sheet and a blanket that used to be white, but now it contains imperceptible alterations in color and texture, probably from repetitive washing. The smell of the washing detergent is pungent, and it's most likely not the one commonly used in households. An institution then, he knows. But what kind? He doesn't open his eyes pretending to be asleep, until they leave. Pretending, something he discovers he is good at. Then he only opens one eye half way. The effort is tremendous, and moving his limbs impossible. It is like he has never had any muscles in his body. He focuses on a part of the blanket that he does see, and after a few minutes he is sure he would recognize it in the pile of blankets of the same brand and model anywhere in the world.
A machine beeps close to him with regularity. Monitoring, supervision. Why observe a person who can't go anywhere? Still, he doesn't like the idea at all. He isn't sure he's a person but he thinks that he should be. The next center of his focus is the floor. Clean. Clinically clean, smelling on disinfectants. An institution. A prison. A hospital. A medical ward of a prison. He never knows why prison is the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe because he knows he is being watched from a distance, and he doesn't see why the patients in any decent hospital should be watched without their knowledge and consent. Why would following what I do be important to anyone? The beeping, on the other hand, it's some instrument more complex than a simple one measuring the heartbeat they would have in any better prison. It's something elaborate, the numbers and the other data on a small screen he cannot see very well probably register and evaluate more vital functions that he is aware are existing in a human body.
He wishes he could move at least a bit to extend his area of study. He can't. His focus goes up for the first time. The ceiling is oppressive. High, and by the looks of it, of a very solid construction. Secured. State of the art. He loses hope watching it. There is no easy way through it he can think of. So he looks down.
The leg of the bed he's lying on is made of metal and is ending on a wheel. A hospital bed. He doesn't feel ill, only unable to move. What is he doing in the hospital, then? He believes he could speak if he opened her mouth. Maybe he should have said something to those people above him. Something in the back of his mind tells him it's much safer he did not. Why should I worry about my safety? he doesn't know either.
Another smell comes from the outside, and he realizes a window must be open in the room he is in. It has to be the warm time of the year for the surroundings to exhale that perfume. Late spring, maybe the beginning of summer. The idea of the month of April fills him with the sudden dread of dying. He doesn't want to die. So he chooses to believes it is summer reigning on the outside and that his life has just started. The distance to the window must not be too great. If he could walk, he could reach it and use it to get out. Out. That thought soon gains huge proportions in his head.
But what would he do then? Where would he go? The realization strikes him as he thinks of that. It's not only that he has no idea where he is. He has no idea who he is nor how he came to be there. A brief look at the visible parts of his body tells him that he's not old yet. He may yet be all right. He doesn't feel old in his head. And he knows, he knows, if only he keeps looking he will find the answers he needs. Then, he will have a plan. Planning is important. Details are important. And he is good in grasping the details. That much he knows.
First, he needs to move. Willing to move a finger gives no results. Only the opening of the eyes is possible. He tries to wiggle a toe on one of the feet, only to realizes he is missing that toe. He attempts with the other foot, and that works better, or at least all the toes are there. The quick mental tour of all the other parts of his body leaves him partially sure that he still has all the rest of the body parts except for the two toes. He would breathe out as a sign of a relief but no voice comes from his mouth, lips unmovable as the rest of him. Petrified. Stoned. Maybe they gave me something? he thinks. But why would they? He is sure of one thing, those two people wanted him awake. How long have I… slept? He has no idea whatsoever.
So he opens and closes one of his eyelids at the time, and occasionally believes that he managed to wiggle a big toe. But the sensation of the movement could very well be only in his head.
xxxxxx
The house of congressman Kellerman, presidential candidate for the second time, late that night.
A well placed call to Lincoln, trustful as ever, reveals what Paul already knows. Sara is gone for a job offer somewhere in the countryside. Helena, Montana. Paul says how happy he is about it, to Lincoln, and how thrilled he is for Sara, to finally be able move on. When Lincoln hangs up, Paul has no other choice but to place another phone call that same day to a person he never expected to speak to again.
"Kelly," he hisses at her over the phone, and he doesn't even know why she is answering him again. That's nothing like Kelly he remembers from before he started to work for Caroline Reynolds. His former business associate has always been trickier than the weather. Kelly can change her number faster than most people can change their pants. Then again he never bothered to check on her after their fallout. Until his papers were delivered that day and he saw a new game being played out. He nevertheless tells her what he called her for, and that means being much more honest that he usually is. Almost as honest as Lincoln by his standards. "This time I'm coming after you, and I'm getting her the hell out of there. Whatever it is that you're doing, just find someone else."
"I wouldn't do that, Paul, really," he hears her casual reply over the phone, and there is that sound of a tea spoon stirring the excessive sugar in a hollow-sounding mug. So she still has her tea very sweet, he remembers with certain melancholy.
"Why not?" he inquires, knowing or expecting the answer he gets.
"Oh, Paul, darling," she says the way she knows it irks him to no end, "you know that I'm more than able to take you out by myself if I have to. You wouldn't want to ruin your rampant progress on a society ladder, would you? Imagine your brains spilled all over one of your latest expensive suits. Wouldn't that be a peculiar sight?"
"I'd be so happy to meet again too," he tells her and he means it. Even if he knows that she is right. If he wants to help Sara, he'd have to use exactly that part of his living brains which he purposefully put to partial hibernation since his new career started progressing so well. The times of cowboys are over, even if there are still native Americans living close to the place where Kelly has set her bloody clinic, and God knows what other lucrative criminal activity on the side.
Paul truly wants to help Sara because she's still alive, unlike his former partner and many other people he had put in the ground for the good of the country. So he needs to think of something with better chance to work out, something other than storming to Sara's rescue and getting killed in the process. Kelly Davis would enjoy that, he has no doubt. She might organize him a luxurious funeral afterwards, bring him flowers, and cry on his grave, but that's another matter. He throws the newspaper to the basket, rolled in a ball, and makes himself a cup of tea, a habit he lost for late at night, since... It's best not to dwell on it. For a second he remembers Kelly the way she was before she became a well paid assassin. Bright. Quick. Way too fast for her own good. He doesn't want to imagine the rest of her CV after she became a murderer, but he has no doubt that it's equally impressive.
In all the wrong ways.
