In The Clear: Pre-Games IV
Marceline "Marcy" Toussaint, 16, Vancouver BC
The space beneath the spiral staircase seems to mould around her body. As Marcy tilts her head ever so slightly in either direction, her cheeks easily find something to rest against. Her legs have long stopped cramping and now numbly refuse to move tighter to her chest. It's impossible to know how much time has passed when she's done nothing but stare at tissue white walls.
Yet, in every possible sense, this is the safest Marcy's felt all day.
She prefers lonely silence to all else that's happened here. She prefers it to the straining tension of the downstairs room, to the uncertainty of her cell, and to the voice's narrow words. Hiding spots in these places are hard to find. The guards in Marcy's last prison would fill every crevice she managed to squeeze herself into. She understood, she never put up a fight to leave. They had to be able to see her no matter that the last thing Marcy wanted was to be seen.
She was the Little Flowers Arsonist, afterall. Dangerous.
No matter how much she tries to distance herself from the title, it's who she is. Everyone in the prison knew. Over the months she'd been there, most inmates had pressed and pulled trying to see what she would do. They wanted to see the anger that had ignited the University of British Columbia's student centre.
Marcy knows how disappointed they must've been to see her instead. She has nothing but a prison sentence in common with the Little Flowers Arsonist. Nothing but headlines that share her name last yet wield her face as a threat.
Reporters swarmed the story almost as soon as it broke. That night when everything hit a wall that only fire was capable of eating through, Marcy hadn't run. Firefighters had led her by the hand away from the smoke. They'd attached all kinds of wires and sensors to make sure that she was alright. Their words had been so kind, so reassuring.
But Marcy hadn't been okay.
She's still not sure what exactly she is.
A monster. A vendetta against a school that failed her. A troubled kid that'd chosen the wrong path.
These are just some of the assumptions she read before being sent away. Words swirled around her name - her title - but no one bothered to ask. Marcy's parents remained silent on the matter, refusing to be interviewed altogether. Every time she walked through the crowds outside the courthouse, Marcy had felt just as she did the night of the fire.
She felt like she was no more tangible than the rising smoke, no more transient than the flames that licked the ceilings. She was less alive than the burnt end of the cigarettes she's managed to trade for or the lighter that takes three tries to ignite.
More microphones had been shoved to her lips than she can count. She never said a word to even one of them. What could she say? What did she want them to know about her that the media hadn't already decided? Marcy is just a title strewn across headlines until the world eventually forgets about her.
She's the Little Flowers Arsonist.
She'll be in prison for the next thirteen and a half years.
That's all there is to know and, truthfully, Marcy's grown to be okay with this. Before prison, the world expected perfection or, in the case of her bullies, grand defeat. Now, they expect destruction. Either way she's a disappointment, but now it almost feels alright to be. Marcy isn't what people expect. She isn't searching for the next thing to incinerate until it's all embers at her feet.
She's hiding, and maybe that's better than destroying.
Maybe.
Marcy opens her eyes again. The only sound that surrounds the small platform is the odd clinking of a dish from the room beyond. The chatter's all but stopped since the two inmates left the kitchen. They're the ones who filled the walls with laughter and loud voices. Even if Marcy didn't want to be a part of it, it was nice to listen to. It felt strangely normal.
Now, it's back to silence. She doesn't mind, how could she when her voice cracks every time she dares part her lips? Quiet is easy, predictable. Lonely is the same.
Too many voices reminds her of the outrage outside the courtroom. She can't hear what each of them say when there's so many. She doesn't know which are sympathizing, which are angry, and which are the many that called for a harsher sentence.
Yet, as much as Marcy tries to convince herself, the platform doesn't feel quite so comforting in the silence. She's more aware of her numbed joints, of the ache that's grown at the center of her back. No matter how many times she tells herself this is just as okay, she finds herself slowly crawling from behind the stairs.
And tripping a moment later into a girl with a frown and long braids.
Marcy has no time to register any other features. She puts one hand out to stop herself but that's exactly the one that lands against the girl's wrist. She gasps loudly, but Marcy can only clench her teeth together as she's sent backwards. Her shoulder strikes the bottom of the staircase and darkness swims as she manages to peel her eyes back open.
The other girl sits up far more quickly. Her cheeks have swollen red and she stares with sharp eyes directly at Marcy. If she hadn't already been on the floor, Marcy's certain she would've melted into it. She searches for the words to apologize, but as usual her tongue comes up empty.
"What is wrong with you?" 012 snaps. She slams her hand into the ground to get herself up, but her pointed gaze doesn't move. Marcy can feel herself begin to tremble and all she wants is to disappear back behind the stairs. Her hand pats against her pocket but it's empty. It was empty when she woke up here despite Marcy knowing she had four cigarettes left.
012 stares down at her with a tight frown as more footsteps leave the kitchen. Barely familiar faces sneak around the corner to see what's going on. This time it's Marcy's cheeks that overheat as she shrinks against the stairs. 012 doesn't say anything further, instead turning to the small crowd behind her. When she turns back, her gaze isn't quite as pointed.
Marcy doesn't look up long enough to notice. She can feel their eyes burning into her. She still hasn't said anything as words melt inside her skull behind memories of the courthouse. The platform is silent but she can hear their shouts. She can feel the microphones tapping her shoulders again.
Tears start to slide down her cheeks no matter how much she wills them back. Once again everyone's staring. Once again they're all expecting her to say something, to make it better or worse yet she can't find a single word. Marcy doesn't know what happened. She doesn't know why she did it. She doesn't know why the thought didn't cross her mind that people could get hurt; she doesn't know why she didn't care if they did.
As soon as the first tear hits the floor below, Marcy buries her face in both hands. It feels like every breath is being taken through a cloud of smoke and each one burns. She can't look at the girl or the ones who've gathered behind her. She can't even make her legs work long enough to pull herself away from all of this.
And the more tears fall, the more stopping them becomes impossible.
Eris Perrault, 17, Winnipeg MB
Eris doesn't know why, but her irritation instantly shifts to the people standing stupidly behind her.
"What are you staring at?" She snaps, turning to find four pairs of bewildered eyes as they flip to her. Eris glares at them, but all most of them do is lean slightly away. They don't get the hint and she isn't about to explain it to them. Hell, she forgets all but one of their names. Eris' frown narrows for another moment before she whirls back around to the girl who's still, for some reason, sitting on the floor.
"Come on," she says sternly, trying but failing to put some kind of patience in her voice. 006's chin lifts slowly until she's almost staring her in the eye, but she looks even more terrified. Eris wants to roll her eyes but she doesn't have it in her to. This girl is the one who ran into her, why is this falling on Eris now? "Get up."
Finally, she does. Eris glances back at the people still staring from inside who somehow have no idea they're not wanted. The last thing she wished for was a crowd yet that's exactly what she has now. All she wanted was to go back downstairs and stop feeling absolutely dizzy on this floor. It's not helping her keep the food down, that's for sure.
It's better than her last prison's food, but only barely. None of them knew what to make with the sparse cupboard ingredients but Meg and… the one who wouldn't stop talking… figured out some kind of pasta sauce. Most of the issue Eris took with the meal was the fact that they kept insisting it needed to simmer longer.
She doesn't want to spend time with anyone. Not these people, not this sobbing girl she's following up the stairs, and not anyone. Eris is perfectly content to waste away in her cell.
Afterall, isn't that what prison is supposed to be?
Why make friends? Why eat a meal that makes no difference in the grand scheme of things? Why enjoy a single second of this place when it should be a punishment worthy of all the people who'll never leave the mortuary?
This isn't pessimism, it's just how it is.
The girl pauses on the next platform and shyly turns back to Eris. She looks just as pathetic standing as she did cowering a minute ago. There are tears falling freely down her blushed cheeks, hidden only slightly by her overgrown bangs. The way her shoulders turn inwards, it looks like she's half expecting to be slapped. The way she doesn't draw further away makes it look like she doesn't care if she will be.
Eris lets out a slow breath. She's seen her share of girls like this, mostly after the first few days of prison actually hit them. They slink down the hallways as if their shadow were going to beat them up. It only makes the prison yard bullies' fucking dicks throb.
She's never cared about them before. Eris stays out of things. She isn't here to protect anyone but herself and she isn't going to stick her neck out only to have it slit by some idiot. She's been here long enough to know better.
Maybe she isn't as tough as she used to think, but at least she's not as stupid either. Eris isn't going to fall in line with girls that are going to use her as some dummy shield. She isn't going to swoon just because they show her a tiny hint of friendship. She's been down that road before and the only place it led was to her name printed on the front page.
She's beyond that. She doesn't care. What's done is done.
Yet, when she thinks about newspapers her name isn't what brands the inside of her skull. It's what came after - the testimonials and victim statements, the survival stories, the people interviewed months later whose lives would never be the same because of what she did. More than any of those, however, is the one detail that she's asked about more times than she can count.
"Who is it?" Eris asked. She closed her eyes because she knew what the answer would be. She clenched her jaw tightly because she still hoped for a different one.
"They're a minor," the social worker explained. By now, Eris could probably say the words along with her. "Their identity is protected under law unless their family chooses to publicize it."
The same line was included in near-every article Eris could get her hands on "[...] and an unnamed child." The list of names grew longer in the days that followed the explosion outside Memorial Provincial Park. Eris had never asked what was inside the case her friends gave her to carry that morning.
Never, in a million years, could she have imagined.
Even in court, the underaged victim was never named. Eris had to sit through impact statements from many of those affected and one from a deceased victim's family member. The other fatality was mentioned, but always in obscure terms. She knew exactly how the victim died, but nothing about them personally.
Eris has to wonder if it's her sister.
Her parents haven't visited her once in the months she's been in prison. She knows why. Even if the victim wasn't Kaya, she would've been at least as injured in the explosion as Eris was. She spent nearly a month in a trauma ward before she was able to be transferred out. She was treated for a ruptured spleen and flash burns that had taken months to stop stinging. Kaya had been just as close to the explosion.
It's more than possible the name Eris isn't allowed to know is hers. She's all but told herself that it is. Even still, the day she finally finds out she's right, if she ever does, will no doubt destroy her.
All Eris had to do was listen. She only had to put down that case and believe for a second that maybe Kaya wasn't just trying to control her. If she'd listened to every ignored red flag, every too-fast beat in her chest, and her sister telling her that something was wrong, she wouldn't be here.
She'd be unhappy. She'd still be at home praying for the day she turned eighteen and could finally go off on her own. She'd probably still envy her sister just as much as she always had and want nothing more than to rip up every family picture.
But Kaya would be safe next door in her bed, and Eris wouldn't wish she'd been thrown against that park bench just a little bit harder.
Eris points up the next set of stairs and 006 wordlessly starts up them. She can still hear the murmuring of the people downstairs. All she wants right now is to get away from them and for some reason that doesn't extend to the girl walking in front of her.
When they reach the top of the next staircase, Eris steps past her to enter the room. Its walls and floor have already cleared, meaning that someone else has already made it up here. Still, it feels more private than the stairs behind them. 006 enters quietly, but stands only a step beyond the threshold. When Eris turns around, the tears have finally stopped.
"I'm sorry," 006 whispers. She doesn't lift her eyes high enough to reach Eris, in fact she can barely see them behind her hair. The girl seems to know exactly how to stand to best hide behind it.
Eris swallows. Where usually there would be a sharp response ready on her tongue, there's nothing at all. Now, standing just the two of them, coming up here feels like a stupid choice. She could've easily gone alone. Maybe, she wouldn't feel so uncomfortable right now if she had.
006 continues, her voice even lower as she turns her head away. "And thank you."
Eris shakes her head but she's unsure if the girl sees. "Watch where you're going next time."
006's eyes lift ever slightly and just long enough for Eris to see the sting of her words. She shifts as the pit in her stomach starts to open up again the same way it had downstairs. She doesn't know what to say to this girl. She doesn't know why she's standing here at all right now. The other inmates aren't her problems to attend to.
Yet, it takes nearly a minute before she can make her feet move back towards the door. 006 moves out of her way and doesn't say a word more, but Eris can't stop herself from looking back before she darts back down the stairs. Something about her feels far too familiar.
Not because Eris' met her before. No, it's because the hopeless sting on her face is so similar to the one Eris sees each time she closes her eyes.
Bowen "Bowie" Bridges, 18, Quebec City QC
As Bowie eventually tears their eyes away from the unmoving skyscape, they realize once again that they're alone.
They close their eyes. The silence would be almost peaceful if it weren't for the hollow pit in their stomach. Bowie curls closer to the glass barrier and tries to ignore the dizzying image below. The clear wall separating them from the strange blue void is maybe a meter high at most. Through the blurry shield across their eyes, it's easy to pretend it's not there at all, that there's nothing separating them from the eternal haze spread before them.
They're little more than a spot on the clear rooftop. Looking from any direction, it would be so easy to miss them. Against the neverending blue that surrounds this place, Bowie may as well not exist.
In some ways, they wish that were true.
Bowie spent much of the past months wondering. There's still so much about what happened that doesn't make sense and so little of them that's prepared to sort through any of it. The statements that have been presented like fact since handcuffs were first clamped around their wrists are still so confusing. They screamed, they sobbed, they rattled pointlessly against the bars of their cell until they were eventually replaced with a solid white wall.
And through all of it, they wondered if what the courts said was true.
The images of blood sprays on the apartment baseboards looked so real. The bruises that littered their father's shoulder and cheeks couldn't possibly be fake. Yet, Bowie doesn't remember any of it. They close their eyes and hear a sickening pop, but it could easily be something other than bone.
… right?
They didn't do what the prosecutor accused, what the evidence showed, what the judge ultimately decreed. And if they did-
It was inevitable.
It was the only thing that could've happened. Bowie couldn't have stopped it even if they wanted to. They wouldn't have done anything like that - anything so horrifyingly violent - if there were other options. They wouldn't hurt anyone. Bowie isn't what the courts sold them as. They're not a monster that needs to be shut away. They're not a creature that belongs behind bars and nowhere else.
… right?
Bowie finds themself nodding along. Even here, alone on a roof that's neither too warm nor too cold with a breeze that feels so close to nothing, they have to desperately sell it. There are no tears this time. Bowie doesn't feel a scream building in their throat as they stare out at nothing. All that sits in their chest is the immense sense of desolation that refuses to budge.
The first thought they had when they woke up here was getting out. This wasn't their last prison; it wasn't even solitary confinement where Bowie'd found themself after both escape attempts. The difference was hope. There was a chance, however small, that the guards wouldn't know them here. Without those extra-vigilant eyes following them, they could make it.
Now, sitting up here, Bowie understands that there's nowhere to go.
They swallow as they search the skyscape once more, but nothing's changed. As far down as they can see and as high up as their eyes travel, there's nothing but blue. Left to right, all just a haze of sameness.
All of the things they need to prove, all of the things still yet to accomplish, and all of the hugs they need from their mom feel lost inside it.
"Are you alright?"
Bowie turns back towards the kind voice and finds a pair of concerned eyes watching them. They look away again before slowly shaking their head. At almost the same moment, the tears start and Bowie has to press their palms to their eyes to stop them.
How pathetic they must look.
"It's okay." The voice is nearer now, more insistent, as Bowie gasps a breath through their tears. They don't know why it's all coming out now, why after nearly an hour sitting here it's finally hit them. They're trapped. There's no way out of this place and that fact is so certain it doesn't need guards to protect it. "It's okay."
Bowie pulls their arms around their knees. Through their blurry eyes they can make out the half-familiar face of one of the boys from their table. The two of them hadn't spoken more than a couple of words at the time. Still, 007 never looked unkind.
"I'm sorry," Bowie finally manages to choke out the words but feels near-instantly worse.
"No, it's okay," 007 assures them. "Today's been a lot."
They swallow. As much as that's an understatement, it's nice to know someone else feels it too. There were others downstairs that seemed far more upset - a couple of girls who cried on and off before the last announcement. Yet, all the people Bowie had followed up here looked so okay it's hard to remember the tears. "Yeah."
007 looks around, seeming to take in the rooftop for the first time. "This is kind of crazy."
"It's nothing," Bowie says quickly. They swallow down another surge of tears and glance again through the glass barrier. "There's nothing out there."
There's a pause. Bowie feels even more pathetic in the silence, as though they've said too much yet they feel the need to explain themself at the same time. There's nothing. How can there just be nothing?
"What were you hoping to see?"
Bowie turns until they're square with 007. His expression doesn't look bothered, it's as warm as the one they remember downstairs. He's not mocking them. Bowie wishes they hadn't expected him to be.
"I was hoping we'd be in Quebec City," they answer honestly. "I thought I'd be home."
007 slides down until he's sitting against the barrier. He stares out at the haze for only a few seconds before turning back to Bowie. "Me too."
And it's those two words that remind Bowie that maybe they're not so alone. What happened down in their cell probably happened to every other kid in this place. They all likely agreed to freedom and hoped to walk outside their bars to find it. Instead, they're all still just as trapped here as they were wherever they came from.
Bowie's not the only one. For some reason that fact's all it takes for their posture to relax against the glass.
"I'm Omar," he says with a slight grin, filling the space after only a few seconds of silence.
They return the smile. "Bowie."
"Nice to meet you," Omar says. "Even if it's here."
"You too," they nod. "And thanks, for coming up."
"I hadn't seen you around for a few hours," Omar shrugs. "There's not many places to hide."
A warmth fills Bowie's chest. He was looking for me? It's a strange feeling but not at all unwelcome. Even in prison no one ever sought them out. Bowie thinks they might even like the resulting twist in their stomach.
"Where's home?" They're not sure how else to continue the conversation yet they desperately want to. Omar shows no signs of leaving, but there's only so much to do up here. If he decided to get up, would Bowie be expected to follow him? Would they want to? Bowie thinks they would.
"Calgary," Omar sighs. "It's weird not knowing how far they are."
"Who?"
"My parents," he says carefully. It seems like he's about to say more, but he doesn't.
Bowie nods. "It feels like forever since I saw my mom."
"Yeah." Omar seems to pause again, but this time keeps going. "How long have you been in for?"
They swallow. "If it's still March… almost six months."
"Can I ask why?"
Bowie pauses, but they don't want the conversation to stop by not answering. They also don't know if they're ready to say what happened out loud. They still don't understand it themself. Yet, despite all these uncertain thoughts, the truth comes pouring out. "Assault and trespassing. I-I'm not sure if-why I did it."
"I'm sure you had your reasons," Omar says without blinking. "Regardless, I'm sorry that happened to you and I'm glad you're here now. We're gonna get out, just like they said. You'll be back in Quebec before you know it. It'll be like none of it even happened."
"You think so?" Will people really just forget? Will things just go back to normal?
Omar offers a small smile. "Of course. Everyone deserves forgiveness."
Even me? Bowie wonders, but they don't even have to ask. The certainty in Omar's expression tells them all they need to know. Maybe Bowie isn't so sure, but maybe that's okay for now.
"You too," Bowie says instead. "I'm glad you're here too."
A/N: Hello again. Not much to say here, but a warning that next week's chapter may be late due to my work schedule. Hopefully it'll still be out on time but this is a heads-up just in case. Thanks to everyone reading, you're all very appreciated.
~ Olive