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All mistakes are my own.
January 16th, 2018 6:50 EST
Cryophobia - the fear of ice or frost.
I run my palm over the rusting gate, my fingers trailing over one of the padlocks that line the opening. The corrosion is so thick that it leeches from the keyhole and crawls around the metal it's looped around, staining the once grey iron a blood orange.
The wind whips my hair around my cheeks, angry fingers tearing into my blistering skin as I try and shield my face from the bitter squall that swoops up and over the bridge. My toes are numb in the old and thinning boots that are wrapped around my legs, the tips of the plastic bags that line the insides flap against my legs as I shove my nose deeper into the collar of my coat.
There are shouts from down below me but I force my eyes away from the death. Not wanting the nightmares I turn my head into the wind hoping the howling will drown the screams that are soon to echo over the ice.
Although I know my mind is forcing me to think it, I feel the slight sway of the concrete beneath my feet and my knees begin to shake. I turn my head up to look at the towering beams of steel, eyeing the slight fray in the cables that arch up the highest part of the bridge and my stomach lurches at the amount of decay even metal can experience.
Tearing my eyes away from the corroding metal, I follow the chain link fence all the way back down to the crumbling concrete. I press my hands against the enclosure, wrapping my fingers through the holes I look on past the abandoned guard post, my eyes tracing the fading yellow lines that run down the middle of the road.
Men laugh from beneath me and my heart gives a hopeless lurch as I imagine them making it across the water and running back to their families. Their smiles as they pull their loved ones into their arms and kiss their faces.
But I can hear it. Like glass shattering the ice begins its thundering of cracks as they race towards their freedom. Curses float up to me as I press my forehead against the biting metal and force my mouth shut.
I shake my head at the thoughts of them being able to make it back.
They're too far now. They wouldn't survive.
I nod my head at the thoughts that trail through my mind but the pain of them dying lingers in my bones as they scream. The ice opens, I can hear the sudden rush of water and the abruptly silenced scream of one of the men.
I swallow past the sickness that fills my throat and close my eyes.
I count them as they fall.
One.
Two.
Three.
I wonder if where they all go is better, if somehow it's them that are the lucky ones and not the ones who have been here long enough to know.
I try to force the thought of them being free away from me. Scolding myself of envying the dead but I can't help but wonder if stepping out onto the ice really is our best chance to survive.
I try to remember that every year we are closer but the warm months are shrinking and colder are taking us under.
I wonder how many we can survive before we all start to wonder if walking out onto the ice is the only option.
I bite my lip and look around me wondering if they can hear me, my paranoia sitting on my shoulders makes me whip my head around and press my back against the fence.
I try to force my head away from the ice but as I look over the edge I have to wonder, will I be the next one to try?
I shake my head and push my body off the gate.
I throw the black waters one more look before walking away.
I just hope that it was fast.
And that they didn't suffer.
We do our share of that, but I would hope that their death was free of it.
Just that once.
xxx
The day I was convicted is fuzzy these days.
Maybe I'm pushing it away. Forcing my brain to file it away with all the other shit that doesn't matter anymore because honestly here I'm nothing but another person breathing someone else's air, and eating someone else's food.
I remember the days I would watch the prison on TV, those days are so clear while everything else is breaking away from my head leaving me to piece together a past I know I didn't live.
Mom and Dad would sit in the kitchen and talk about their days while I would sit on the floor, my elbows under my chin as I watched the inmates being led inside the gates by the guards. I would see the burning buildings outside my school window, smoke rising from the island. And I would sit outside my house and watch the people get dragged away from their homes, screaming they didn't do it, and that they were innocent. One thing I have learned here is that there aren't very many that were telling the truth on those days.
We are all guilty of something.
Even me.
I didn't come from a bad family. It would be easier to say I did, and that what I was convicted for made sense, it was in my genes. But my mom and dad loved me, and I loved them. I wasn't beaten or abused. My parents weren't criminals, never so much as missing a bill payment.
I grew up in the rich part of town, and my friends were all like me.
I was happy. We were happy.
My arrest made the local paper. My conviction the local news station.
Everyone wanted to see how I had fallen. That privileged little girl nothing but the dirt they all secretly thought I was.
Spoiled.
A brat.
Did they think I deserved what I got?
Possibly.
They believed what was written because the truth was easier to ignore. And they all wanted to say they knew me.
They knew the girl who murdered the high school English teacher.
Mr. Webster was twenty years my senior on the day of his death. A proud father of three and a devoted husband, he was the epitome of the perfect man.
I wonder if Mrs. Webster knew what her husband craved, or if the school had. I imagine his life would have been much different.
Mr. Webster was the perfect example of living your life on what if.
What if his past had caught up with him?
What if his daughter hadn't been scared to tell the police?
What if I hadn't been there that night?
I didn't matter. I stopped wondering what if when the first snow fell; it just didn't seem worth it then.
xxx
I do not travel above ground very often, avoiding the crowed main streets and darken alley as much as possible has kept me alive for this long.
There are no guards stationed anywhere in the dead city, we govern ourselves in a way that the weak are the easiest to target, the easiest to control and the easiest to kill.
The ancient subway tunnels run under the entire abandoned island making discreet travel easy.
I shove my hand deeper into my pockets as I step over a long since fallen lamp post and eye the grey slush that has come to replace snow these days. Shaking my feet of the icy water that leaks into the soles of my worn boots I move through the darkening streets to the gaping mouth of the subway. Glancing over my shoulder I wrap my hand around the rusting railing and take the steps quickly into the murky tunnel.
Jumping the last two steps I skate past the last rays of dying light that managed to follow me down the steps and move around the granite pillars I have come to memorize. Reaching into my pocket I pull out the dented lighter and flick the flint. Sparks burst from the tip before dying. I grunt, pursing my lips as I shake it before flicking it again.
The flame lights a circle around me in flickering shadows, faces dancing just beyond the glow I walk slowly as to not blow the spark out. The lockers lay like fallen dominos on top of one another against the molding tiled walls. I knell down in front of the bottom locker, caving in from the consent weight I have to pry open the distorted door. Dropping the heated lighter back into its resting spot, I slip my fingers into the space between the door and the frame and pull. The metal screeches as the stiff hinges protest the movements. I slip my hand into the gap and wrap my hand around the strap to the patchwork backpack and easing it from the confines of the rusted metal. I push the door with the heel of my boot back into place before standing up and swinging the bag over my shoulders and tightening the straps.
My knees crack as I stand, the sound echoing across the black room. I breathe in through my nose and move away from the mouth of the stairs, walking further into the darkness.
As my eyes adjust I can see the off white of the decaying tiles end into darkness, leaning forward I flick my lighter and look down at the aged subway car tracks. Rats squeal and run away from the faint glow that shines into their beady eyes. I grimace as they scramble over one and another to escape the light.
Bending my knees I drop down onto the tracks, wincing as the impact vibrates through my legs, I straighten, shaking my feet to rid the tingles that crawl up my calves and move along the once high voltage way.
Bricks arc up at the mouth of the abandoned tunnel as I flick my lighter and move under the arch. The tiny flame does nothing to light more than a foot in front of my eyes leaving everything around me darker than before.
I feel my way through the echoing tunnels like I have done every day for the last three years, shuffling my feet carefully in front of me as to not trip on a torn beam that are ripped up everywhere. My head throbs as I breathe, bringing the scent of decay into my body. Shivering I try and shake the feel of death off of my skin and out of my body.
Somewhere off in the maze of winding tracks, an ancient pipe drips, the water rings as it strikes the corroding iron. Above me the ground shakes as the people run along the swaying concrete. I breathe through my nose to stop the fear that slowly claws along my throat and push my feet to move faster.
Taking a sharp right I move away from the crowded areas of the prison and farther to the opposite end of the island. Soon the sounds above me fade away and I'm left counting my steps.
Stepping over the raised metal of the path I move to the slick stones of the wall. Running my fingers over the slippery rocks I brush my fingers over the rough metal ladder. Wrapping my hands around the first wrung I breathe deeply and step up. The iron shakes as I move causing my knees to rattle and sweat to break out along my temple. I shake my head and push my body higher, counting as I go.
When I reach the top I pause, resting my palm against the manhole cover I feel for the vibrations of feet, any sign that someone is up above me and waiting. Sighing when nothing happens I shove the old metal up and over to the side. Moon light leaks into the subway and I lift my head out to look around me. Snow has begun to fall again, thick wet flakes drowning my clothing as I pull my body from the ground. Silently as possible I replace the cover and sprint off of the exposed street and away of any watchful eyes, praying no one saw me.
xxx
I move quickly through the dark alleys, jumping the rusted garbage cans that lay toppled on their sides, their rotted contents spilled across the broken asphalt and decaying cardboard boxes now nothing but wet pills of mulch.
Coming to the end of the backstreet, I rush up the steps of the tarnished red metal door and knock softly where the door meets the concrete steps. The hinges squeal as someone unlocks the deadbolt and pulls the heavy iron open. A large man looks down at me with narrowed eyes and I return the gesture.
"You're late" he grumbles, his large pipe like arms wrap around his chest as he looks at me.
"That's the warm welcome you have for me?" I say as I move past him into the dark little room and toe off my ragged boots "No 'welcome home' no 'glad you're alive'? Honestly, where has all the love gone?"
With a shake of his head he closes the door and turns the locks back into place. Running a hand through his tangled mess of hair he rolls his eyes. "Welcome home Bella" he deadpans "glad you're alive" he looks down at his bare wrist "you're late."
I shrug as I move my coat from around my shoulders and drop it onto the old shaking chair by the door. I walk towards the small wood stove that sits in the corner of the room and sink to my knees to warm my hands against the soft waves of heat that gently lull from the black cast iron. "Three more tried today" I tell him as I watch the flames dance within the fire, flicks of orange and red twirling along the slightly blacked glass, trying to find a gap to freedom.
I look up at him and he nods, urging me on. I shake my head, sighing "They didn't even make it half way."
Emmett exhales and drops to the mildew ridden couch we rescued from the alley two years ago "fucking imbeciles." He shakes his head "When will they ever learn?" he looks at the curling wallpaper that lays in strips along the old carpeted floor.
"They just want to be free" I shrug as I turn back to the fire "is that so bad?" I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth, shifting my eyes, I look at the side of his face as it falls.
"Of course they want to be free, Bella. We always want what we can't have." He sighs and folds his hands in his lap, eyes clouding; I know he isn't seeing out little home anymore but the life he had on the outside. Shaking his head to rid the memories, he turns to look me in the eyes, his so sad my heart aches for his "They knew this would be worse than a cell, giving us all this space to go, like the leash isn't on at all, but you know just as well as I do, that no matter what direction you take you always run out of room." I chew my lip as he looks at his hands. "It's human nature to want to escape a locked door, no matter how big the area inside it is, we always want to leave. But everything we have done, and everything we will do reflects on how much we belong here, and how much everyone else belongs out there." Emmett looks to the boarded up window and presses his lips together "we can crave freedom all we want, hope and pray for it, but the bottom line is, we don't deserve to be free."
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