My Own Prison
Written by Celestra (Les-chan), AKA El S
I'm so proud! Our beloved Holes section has flourished to over four hundred stories and now the canon sector represents roughly 40% of the entire section, as opposed to the 25% from before! *chucks celebratory beverages at her fellow canon writers*
Ahem ^^ Anyways, I was listening to one of my [burnt] Creed CD's the other night, and it inspired me to write. Actually, it inspired me to write more than just this, but shh; we'll get to that later ^-~ Anyhow, this is a songfic depicting Stanley's court session shortly before being sent to Camp Green Lake as well as part of the bus ride and his session there. It just seemed odd to me that Louis Sachar touched on it so lightly, and that there's nothing in about such an open subject because people are too busy sticking girls in CGL x.x Well, that and my last songfic (Ron from Harry Potter, muahah) went over surprisingly well – I look back on it now and like it less than I did when I first wrote it, lol.
The song is, predictably, My Own Prison by Creed. It's a beautiful song with some very nice guitar and a very passionate message, I advise you to listen to it :)
Shout-outs to my Posse, you know who you are ;)
And now, on with the show – err, would this be a concert if it's a songfic, then?
Disclaimer: If I owned Holes, all the money I got from it would be spent towards aiding the poverty and poor conditions in third-world countries, saving the tigers and the whales, and I'd have been able to buy my way into that Linkin Park concert I had to miss because the tickets were sold out :- p And if I owned the song My Own Prison, I would be affiliated with Creed and I would also be rich, with the said money going to the above. Since these things aren't real, take that as your hint ^^
This is rated PG for depressing/suicidal thoughts. Just thoughts about it in general; nothing too heavy.
"Stanley Yelnats, please rise."
At this point, Stanley Yelnats the IV was much too scared to correct the judge on his name. He was also much too nervous to laugh, even when he heard his father and grandfather rise as well when the judge didn't specify which Stanley Yelnats he meant, and his mother had to pull them both back down sharply into their seats.
As it stood, Stanley didn't think he'd ever felt so nervous in his life – and because of his family curse, there hadn't been a whole lot of uncomfortable things Stanley hadn't gone through. But this, he thought, had to take the cake. I'm in court for a crime I haven't even committed and there's a good chance I'll be put away – it doesn't get much worse than this.
The judge gave Stanley a truly patronizing glare, as though it was he who had ordered the Yelnats men to stand all at once. "Stanley Yelnats the IV," he rolled his eyes as he looked at the papers in front of him, before turning back to glare at Stanley some more.
'He obviously doesn't like me,' Stanley thought, because the judge couldn't be glaring at just his appearance – he was dressed immaculately in his good church clothes, and he had even made an attempt to tame his wild cinnamon curls.
"The verdict is in," the judge began, leaning forward slightly as he peered at Stanley, sneering slightly, obviously thinking Stanley's crime so heinous that it would alright to enjoy his prolonged suffering.
Stanley avoided looking at the jury, keeping his eyes either on the ground or fixed on those of the judge – he didn't want to see his sentence written clearly on the jury's faces; didn't want to see leering faces from those who believed him to be guilty; wanted the knowledge of his public innocence to be prolonged as long as possible. He couldn't see Clyde Livingston, but he could sense that he was leaning forward in his seat, tense and expectant. The whole room was silent, except for the sharp intake of breath as Mrs. Yelnats awaited to hear what would befall her baby boy.
"Stanley Yelnats the IV, you have been found guilty of that which you have been accused."
Stanley's stomach melted. There was no other way to describe it – it had gone up in his throat, oozed down through his chest and simply disappeared – taking his legs with it as he fought to remain steady on the aforementioned limbs. Behind him, he could hear his mother's sob, which she struggled to keep silent as possible, and suddenly he felt ten times worse. His stomach was back, but it was filled with lead, and his heart had fallen down there as well, it seemed.
He looked around the room, and it suddenly appeared like a cage to him – cold and unforgiving – and even the warm tones of the wood did nothing to appease the closed feeling of the room. It echoed the cold face of the judge and the jurors.
The judge continued. "I could send you to jail, and I would not lose one bit of sleep over it."
Stanley's mother let out a strangled little cry, and Stanley desperately wanted to go and comfort her and tell her it was all right – but would it be? What would his sentence be? Would this court session be the last time he saw his parents before being carted off to prison?
"But I don't know what good that would do." The judge kept on talking, shaking his head as he did so. Stanley tried to keep his face neutral as inwardly he cried out in anguish, realizing this judge had no pity for him, young as he was, and that something worse than jail must be in store for him. It would do no good to appeal to the judge, comprehended Stanley.
He could hear Clyde Livingston voicing his approval joyfully to a woman who must be his wife. The jurors were all muttering gleefully, pleased that one allegedly cruel enough to steal from orphans would be rightfully punished. The noises escalated to a screaming in Stanley's head – the screaming voice that wanted to protest and proclaim his innocence.
The judge banged his gavel in annoyance at the added noise. The room shushed, all eager to hear Stanley's sentence for very different reasons. Stanley's breathing grew louder as the tension built, but still he fought to appear neutral, and not like the scared little boy screaming for mercy in his head.
"There is currently a vacancy at Camp Green Lake," the judge spoke once the room had quieted. "They help troubled youth build character."
Stanley perked up a bit. Could this Camp Green place the judge was speaking of be a potential alternative to jail? Was it possible he found salvation from the demons in the courtroom that would be only happy to hear he had been raped or worse alone in a godforsaken prison?
The judge went on speaking. "The choice is yours. Camp Green Lake, or jail."
Stanley gulped as his brain processed his two choices and attempted to analyze which one he should take. On the one hand, he knew a fairly large amount about the jails in his vicinity. But on the other hand, he knew next to nothing about this Camp Green Lake place where troubled youth supposedly built character – but the judge had said it was a camp. If it were a camp, it couldn't be that bad, could it? A camp couldn't possibly be worse than a jail, could it?
Stanley leaned forward into the microphone, wincing as its wailing screech echoed around the courtroom. "Well, I've never been to camp before."
The judge gave Stanley an interested glance as he leaned forward as well. "Is this your choice?"
Stanley looked to the stand behind him where his parents were sitting for verification, to see if they had heard good things about this Camp Green Lake. His mother spoke up, "Your Honor, might we have a bit of time to find out more about this Camp Green Lake?"
The judge shook his head. "Sorry ma'am – but vacancies don't last long at Camp Green Lake. You'll have to make your decision now."
Stanley looked to his parents again and nodded in affirmation. "Camp Green Lake," he said.
The judge gave a twisted little grin. "Eighteen months, Camp Green Lake, son," he banged his gavel, finalizing Stanley's sentence.
* * *
Stanley was due to leave for Camp Green Lake in a week, and during this time he and his family had been able to do a little bit of research on the camp. They hadn't found out much, but they learned it was a detention center way out in the middle of Texas, right beside nowhere. It was for boys only and incorporated physical labor in the hot sun. Stanley wasn't looking forward to this at all, and didn't know whether jail or Camp Green Lake had been the better choice – he felt he could do without hard work in the hot sun – although he did suppose he'd be able to swim in the lake. But Stanley couldn't help feeling that by accepting the judge's proposition of Camp Green Lake he'd been signing his own execution papers – a feeling in his gut told him there was a reason no one would tell him anything about the camp before he actually agreed to it.
His skin tingled in morbid anticipation of the hot sun that would soon be baking it, and he knew there was no going back.
A court is in session; a verdict is in.
No appeal on the docket today,
Just my own sin.
The walls are cold and pale,
The cage made of steel.
Screams fill the room;
Alone I drop and kneel.
Silence now the sound;
My breath the only motion around.
Demons cluttering around,
My face showing no emotion.
Shackled by my sentence,
Expecting no return.
Here there is no penance.
My skin begins to burn.
A normal yellow school bus was the vehicle that transported the campers of Camp Green Lake to the camp. Stanley hadn't known what he was expecting would take him there, but the innocent yellow means of transportation had been the last one to cross his mind. He had been figuring something with armor would be more likely.
He, as well as the driver and the armed guard, had been on the bus for two hours already, but it was a nine-hour trip so they still had a long while ahead of them. But Stanley couldn't just will the hours away. His court session was constantly replaying in his head.
After the session had been let out, he remembered, he and his family had been escorted outside, along with Clyde Livingston and his wife. Stanley had been determinedly looking anywhere but at his hero, still far too stung about Sweet Feet's proclamation that he didn't deserve to be his fan. But Stanley hadn't been expecting a crowd outside the door – obviously the word that Clyde Livingston himself was involved in the trial had spread around, and it soon developed into a famous case.
Clyde Livingston willingly gave several small interviews on his way to his car about what had happened in the court – he told several reporters that he had won his case, and rightfully so. Those who hadn't known the full story were soon filled in as Sweet Feet designated Stanley as a cruel, heartless thief who had attempted to cheat orphans. The crowd had attempted to get Stanley to speak to them as well and confirm Clyde Livingston's story, but loyally, his family had all told them 'no comment, no comment.' Stanley himself could only stay mute, unable to talk, unable even to change his ashen, stricken expression, but still attempting to keep his head up as proud as he could so as not to embarrass his family, who were trying their hardest to avoid the reporters who would twist their words out of context against their son and grandson.
Then came the worst of it for Stanley. The two officers who had apprehended him both made their appearance in the midst of the crowd, along with the twelve jurors, who were done for the day. The crowd recognized them and made to speak with them as well, the officers telling proudly of their rough capture of Stanley. Stanley felt sick; because at the time he had still been innocent, but the officers still had a selfish pride in the way they had handled a junior who hadn't even fought back against them. And the crowd hated him even more, for if it hadn't been for those officers, a heartless individual would have gotten away with what must have only been a 'souvenir' to him.
Hate for the whole predicament he had gotten into by simply running away bubbled and burned from Stanley's core – and yet he wasn't allowed to hate it. Only the crowd had the right to hate him. He knew if he provoked them it would only fuel whatever negative feelings they already had towards him. And so his ashen expression hid his real emotions, allowing him to appear docile, to appear as though he had already given up – which, essentially, he had.
The bus had no air conditioning, and it started to get steadily hotter as the bus traveled more South towards the heart of Texas. Stanley's head had previously been resting against the bus's metal window frame, but as the sun started to heat it, it was impossible to stay there without his flesh being roasted red. As it was, the metal handcuff around his wrist was attached to an armrest, and the sun was heating it as well – it burned him terribly and was already painful for being tight in the first place.
His family had no luck, and he knew it. His great-grandfather hadn't been able to keep his fortune, his grandfather hadn't been able to keep his jobs, and his father hadn't been able to market any of his inventions for a variety of reasons. His great-grandfather had lost his fortune in this very desert, and had almost died to boot – and Stanley figured if he survived whatever physical labor was involved, he'd probably die of heat anyways.
And yet, this sun that was already burning at his flesh was the same sun that would be shining on him from a luxurious home on the beach in California if his great-grandfather's fortune hadn't been robbed. This same sun was that filling his body with cancerous UV light was the same sun that was shining elsewhere on the fortunate – and it wasn't burning them alive. The goodly sun never shone on him.
If only he had stood up for himself. If only he had defended himself properly in the court. If only he left out the part about the shoes falling from the sky and just told from when he had found them in the street (after bouncing off his head). The shoes falling from the sky part made them dubious, he knew that much. If only he weren't so meek and afraid of what would happen to him that he could take the situation in a stride. He knew he must have looked and seemed guilty, but that had only been his fear of what would happen. Why was it no one could see anything from the perspective he offered? Others would surely be nervous as well. Others would surely act as he had done. But then why was it so impossible to see his actions from his point of view?
(And I said oh)
So I held my head up high,
Hiding hate that burns inside,
Which only fuels their selfish pride.
(And I said oh)
We're all held captive
Out from the sun;
A sun that shines on only some.
We the meek are all in one.
Stanley had been at Camp Green Lake for a while. It never rained. There was no lake. Nothing was green. And slowly, slowly, he was dying. Dying of heat and exhaustion, hunger and thirst, guilt and his unlucky memories.
There had been one day where he actually thought it might rain. There had been thunder in the distance – many counts away, but still, it had been thunder. There had been a solitary cloud in the sky, which had unmercifully taunted him and the other boys of the camp by moving close enough to the sun so you had to squint to look at it, but never close enough to cover it and offer some much welcomed shade.
The storm in the distance illuminated the horizon with several flashes of burning fire in the sky – lightning danced in the distance, enlightening the range of mountains you only ever saw when the sun wasn't fully in the sky. Stanley had seen a vision there, on that day. A mountain of a most peculiar shape – the shape of a thumb's up sign. It was a colossal thumb, a limb so large it could only belong to God.
God's Thumb.
Hadn't his great-grandfather found salvation "by the Thumb of God?"
The vision – if it were even real – gave Stanley hope, and inspired him, despite the fact he had no one to share the holy visualization with.
He had heard from his parents a few times, and each time he read their letters he felt guiltier for not being with them. They were going through rough times financially, they had fewer friends because of the sneaker scandal, and they were being threatened with eviction by their landlord, who, Stanley remembered, never liked him that much. He had had a part-time job in a grocery store, so the loss of his presence was even worse, because the money he brought home was stifled.
And worse yet, Stanley's heart clenched painfully when he realized that his parents weren't only missing his help around the house, but they were missing him, their son, their baby, who was out of their reach. And he realized whatever pain he felt when he was missing them was felt tenfold by his parents.
All because of that one day when he just had to run with the sneakers. His parents were in pain because of him.
He wanted to die.
He knew his parents were trying to get a real lawyer to get him out of the hellhole he called camp. But that meant they would still have to go up in front of the previous judge – the judge who had eyed him like a lion might eye his prey right before slashing its throat out. That man who so despised him for his crime was the only one who could sign the papers for his release.
It was like having a key that was too large or too small for the keyhole it was meant for.
And besides being free from the torment that was Camp Green Lake, he would be innocent again – his name wouldn't be spoken with disgust on the street, and all that came across him wouldn't damn him. His burden of guilt to his family would be lifted, and he could make a fantastic life for himself and his family to make up for what he caused.
I hear a thunder in the distance;
See a vision of a cross.
I feel the pain that was given
On that sad day of loss.
A lion roars in the darkness;
Only he holds the key.
A light to free me from my burden,
And grant me life eternally.
Stanley knew had been born on a Sunday morning. The subject came up during an unlucky moment when his family had been going to take him on his first ever vacation to Florida. He was now at the age where he needed a passport to fly, and in the time it took to find his birth certificate and write up a passport, a storm had come up and delayed the flight a week, thus forcing the Yelnats family to cancel the whole thing.
Just another unlucky happening in the life of the Yelnats household.
The way Stanley saw it, he should never have been born. All the money his family used up on him could be used for a better life for the rest of his family. And if this was the life he was going to grow up to have, he would probably be better off dead anyways.
And if I had never been born, Stanley reasoned, my parents wouldn't have to mourn if I died out here.
But of course, luck hadn't been on Stanley's side even then. He had been born, and he probably would fall into a hole and break his neck out here and just cause his parents even more terrible sadness.
The timing was all wrong. If he was going to die, better make it before his parents knew him well enough to cry for him. But it was too late for that now.
Should have been dead
On a Sunday morning,
Banging my head.
No time for mourning;
Ain't got no time.
Should have been dead
On a Sunday morning,
Banging my head.
No time for mourning;
Ain't got no time.
(And I said oh)
So I held my head up high,
Hiding hate that burns inside,
Which only fuels their selfish pride.
(And I said oh)
We're all held captive
Out from the sun;
A sun that shines on only some.
We the meek are all in one.
Stanley could definitely testify that he had made the wrong decision in choosing Camp Green Lake. If he were at jail, people would surround him and he would have less time for his thoughts and his guilt trips – and he'd be able to see his parents, for they would be able to visit him. But here at Camp Green Lake, although he was with his fellow D-Tenters, he was often left to his own thoughts when he was out on the lake digging for most of the day, and again at night. The wide expanse of desert with no one in it that he could talk to who would understand him made him feel more alone than ever.
Stanley wished God could have guided him to a better choice – he wished that he had seen God's Thumb much earlier, and that the thumb would have pointed him in the right direction.
He didn't need bars and cells to feel imprisoned when he was entrapped in his own darkened thoughts – for by this point, Stanley had created his own prison.
I cry out to God
Seeking only his decision.
Gabriel stands and confirms
I've created my own prison.
I cry out to God
Seeking only his decision.
Gabriel stands and confirms
I've created my own prison.
(And I said oh)
So I held my head up high,
Hiding hate that burns inside,
Which only fuels their selfish pride.
(And I said oh)
We're all held captive
Out from the sun;
A sun that shines on only some.
We the meek are all in one.
(And I said oh)
So I held my head up high,
Hiding hate that burns inside,
Which only fuels their selfish pride.
(And I said oh)
We're all held captive
Out from the sun;
A sun that shines on only some.
We the meek are all in one.
Should have been dead
On a Sunday morning,
Banging my head.
No time for mourning;
Ain't got no time.
Well, that was . . . err, depressing. LOL. But I figured it was a good idea to write because Stanley gets rather ignored in the Holes section - *glares* - so it's a pretty original concept. Plus knowing Stanley's character, I figured this was one way to put the inner turmoil part of his situation ^^;; I really hope you enjoyed it, so please review. Look, I'm not even begging [yet]! ;)
I like it enough, but I'll probably look back on it later and hate it ^_^9 Oh, the reference of Stanley working in a grocery store pertains to something from the Battle of Shaker Heights, another Shia Labeouf movie – just in case anyone was wondering.
Oh yes – flames which are simply flames for the sake of flaming and involve no constructive criticism will be laughed at. Because we all know what a terrible crime it would be if I laughed at you :-p
PS – It's my birthday in four days! YAY!