The eccentric lawyer guy gave me a task. His words were something along the lines of: "If you keep refusing to eat food, you'll be sent to solitary confinement and eventually force-fed via a tube. And, uh, we really don't want that. So you're going to have to pretend." With a lack of functional gastrointestinal organs, I knew that trying to eat anything would either cause projectile vomit or a backup of soiled food waste in my gut. Not to mention that if I did magically digest something, I'd lose track of that key I still stowed away in my stomach. But Mr Watson made a good point, and also, I needed to demonstrate my trust. I still felt iffy about the whole ordeal, but I figured that if I cooperated, I could get some answers along the way. What could they possibly want with me? Do they know something I don't? Do they simply feel bad for me, and they genuinely want to help? No way that's true.
I left for the cafeteria, tottering behind the messy line of hungry inmates. The loud bustle of male chatter immediately halted upon my entrance. I, too, froze in place. The silence seemed to last a decade.
Should I say something- no, that's ridiculous. You don't say hello in jail. Just go.
I bowed my head and shambled to grab a tray while holding the canes at the same time. Whispers surrounded me. When I neared a table, everyone rushed away to another one.
This is like the fourth grade. My brain concocted a fuzzy image of bug-eyed kids watching me with the same perplexed and mortified looks.
"He's still alive?"
Don't think about that right now.
I crossed my arms and stared down the line of empty chairs, absentmindedly scratching my wrist. I have this entire table to myself. My stare then fell on today's dinner, which was a measly slice of bologna between two pieces of white bread. I picked it up, examining it as if it were a cool rock on the trim of a lake and not a sad little sandwich. My lips pursed. If I put it in my chest, I could remove it later no problem. I just have to get it IN there. I looked up again. Over a hundred eyes were fixed onto me. Everyone waited for me to consume that sandwich like the freak they knew I was. My shoulders hunched. I should've known this would happen. Even the guards in the far corner couldn't glance away. They're all watching? I can't do this. Not like this. I slammed a fist onto the table.
"A-AM I A CIRCUS ATTRACTION?!"
Every inmate whirled back to face their own trays; every officer stepped away to suddenly act busy. Eyebrows raised, I rubbed my throat. No way that worked. After spending another minute looking around in astonishment, I unbuttoned the top of my jumpsuit. I slid the sandwich underneath my T-shirt, blindly shoving over layers of tape with three fingers, and managed to fit it through a crevice. There. I took an experimental breath. A thick wheeze escaped my throat, and my hand instinctively pressed against my chest. I winced at the discomfort. Ouch… I refastened my clothes and stared at the empty tray. I just put a sandwich in my right lung. What the hell is my life now? When I looked up, someone from the nearest table averted their eyes. I found myself scratching my wrist again. Old bits of tape and dirt flaked onto the table surface. Why am I- My gaze focused on the marks I'd made below my hand brace. Something was supposed to be there. My eyebrows raised.
Her scrunchie. Now that I was aware that it was gone, my arm ached where it used to be. I squeezed my wrist. It's fine. It's just a dumb hair tie. You weren't even thinking about it before- it's fine! I buried my head in my arms in an attempt to calm myself. Stop thinking about her. It won't do anything. Against my will, my brain constructed another school memory.
"Sorry, but you're kind of annoying." Why did I say that? To her face?
"And you're redoing the tenth grade. C'mon, stupid. As the third top student in this class, I was told to help you out, so regardless of how you feel about me, it is MY job to make sure you don't fail again. Plus, I really do want to help. People don't seem to stick around you for long. Now do you want nachos or…"
I want you alive and safe- STOP! I pressed my nose to the table, feeling its hard frigid surface press back. Stop. Stop thinking about her. My hands balled up and then released. I should be over this. The grief weighed down my body; I was magnetized to the table. I should really be over this. I longed to close my eyes and forget everything.
I really need to clear my head. It took every muscle in my body to lob myself upright. I instinctively reached for my hip. Dammit. The journal- it's in the bag. I don't have it. I slumped back into my folded arms.
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A small inmate blocked the path to my assigned cell. He wore the same grey jumpsuit as everyone else and sported a spiky, shaven haircut. What is he doing? Is he lost? I took a step. He didn't move and kept his eyes on mine. I tightened my grip on the walking canes. Should I threaten him? What does he want? He can't do anything to me. I forced another step. The man's hands clasped together. What is he- My body froze when he finally spoke.
"Hey, uh, I've heard a lot about you. And I am just 'n awe. The gossip is wild- you're the biggest thing around here since all those missing toddlers. Can I call you P-Man?"
He's in awe of me? My brows lowered. No wonder he's not scared. Surely this person wasn't in awe of the pain and terror I'd inflicted on others? I didn't know what to say. The man took my wary silence as impatience. "Fine, fine- I'll get t' the point." He leaned in and hushed, "Do you wanna hurt someone for me?" I swatted him aside. What? No! The inmate's face flushed at my disgusted expression.
"But-"
Shaking my head, I started down the hall. The inmate jumped back in front of me. I halted to avoid tripping on either his feet, a cane, or both. What the hell, man?!
"C'mon, I can get whatever y' want!" he whined. I raised my chin and demanded broodingly, "Move." The man poked out his lip- he didn't want to go anywhere. My fingers twitched while I maintained a menacing stare and rigid posture. Come on… if this doesn't work…
The small man took ages to bend to my intimidation; he huffed as he backed off. I continued down the hall, though I felt his eyes on the back of my head.
What's his deal? I wondered. He wants something from me, doesn't he? Or maybe he was just expecting the murderous Purple Guy to leap at the chance of killing again… not a chance.
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A nightmare jostled me awake. My mind trapped me in a metal box where I couldn't breathe. I remembered hearing tapping and muffled voices. The sensation left me frazzled. I'm not in a box. I'm not in a box. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to forget. I was never trapped in a box. Why is this coming up again?! When I opened my eyes, my mind conjured a false image of the cell walls narrowing. NO! I slapped my hands over my face. Stop thinking about it! I tried to take a breath and startled at the blockage in my chest, which shuddered in response. Stop it! I grabbed my neck.
You don't need to breathe, I reminded myself with a frown. The sandwich. Broken lungs. How I longed to suck in a deep breath! It's fine. You'll be fine. The Purple Guy doesn't need to breathe. I closed my eyes. But he does need some sleep.
"Visitor."
I clenched what little teeth I had left. Fine, I guess he doesn't. Before I left, I noticed that the puddle of "tears" on the bed mat had evaporated, and the insect corpse was nowhere to be seen.
Of course, the visitor was none other than the sprightly Mr Abram Watson, who gave me another task. It was expected for inmates to shower at least once a week, and though no one had the guts to pipe up and say it, the Purple Guy smelled just revolting. A sleepy smile fell on my face. A shower… I imagined a cloud of hot steam and bubbly suds pillowing my smooth body. God, it's been forever! But a single glance at my hands reminded me that the Purple Guy doesn't have nice skin; and then I remembered that he was in jail, where nothing was nice at all. I kept shifting in my seat.
It'll be fine, I'd told myself and believed it until Mr Watson cracked a joke about dropping the soap.
"Hey, you've got this, pal," he attempted to alleviate my anxiety.
My stomach was still twisted when I got to the shower room door. I reached out for the handle. My eyes caught my taped-up skin again. What if the water messes things up? I saw myself crumbling like a sandcastle in my imagination and grimaced. What will I become?
No. I swallowed. I have to do this. I can just pretend for now. Pretending to eat and wash up was way less risky than an elaborate escape plan. I finally grabbed the door handle. Okay, go. It's a shower room. Everyone showers. Expect it to be wet and-
I promptly noticed the fifty-something naked men. My hand darted up to shield my eyes. Oh, that's a lot of meat! Why did I also expect shower curtains? My eyes locked onto the floor. Streams of water struck the muddy tiles, and yet dark spots of mold occupied the cracks. The thick, sticky air seeped into my clothes. I brought my hand down to death-grip my walking canes with slumping shoulders. Stop being weird about it! I drove my gaze up. Eyes inspected every inch of me; they anticipated seeing the Purple Guy in the nude. My skin flushed hot. No way. No. I can't. I pressed my back against the wall and sidestepped into the corner. The crowd's intense stare didn't falter, save for a few respectful (or likely fearful) individuals who resumed washing.
I can't do this. I don't even have a towel. I did not prepare for this! Stray beads of water spritzed the front of my jumpsuit. If my clothes get wet, I'll HAVE to take them off! I shrank further into the corner, and my toes curled to avoid the water spraying onto my shoes. Why did I even come here? I can't pretend to shower without actually getting IN the water! Shaking my head, I peeled myself off the wall. A few faces of disappointment sprouted as I inched back towards the door.
Sorry Mr Watson, I can't do this one. The Purple Guy doesn't take showers.
By hunching my back, I tried to appear as small as possible on my way down the cell hall. I could still feel the eyes. My jaw tightened as I continued. Ignore them. Don't look at them. You don't care about the way they look at you. They're not thinking about you, or your body, or the things you've done. They're not going to try anything-
Something caught my attention, and I stopped. An inmate scrawled in a small notepad with an eraserless pencil, a serious expression crossing his face. A notepad. I pictured myself in his place. That would be a great substitute for my journal. Where did he get that? I considered asking, but the question left a lump in my throat. My stomach hardened. What if he's writing to his family? I felt guilty for having guilt. I can make him give it to me. I can command anyone to do anything. Conflicted, I opened my mouth, shut it, and then left.
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I appeared for lunch today. A sporkful of beans was next to go into my chest cavity. Lukewarm and slimy, they wriggled down inside. I shifted in my seat and grimaced, disgusted with this sensation. The remaining slop stared back at me. I cannot do that again. I dragged the residue all across the tray. There. It's fine. My gut did not agree. Clamping a hand to my nose and mouth, I suppressed the urge to cough up an organ. Do NOT throw up now- you'll lose that key! Think about something else! The sights of the shower room came back to me. Not that! I scrubbed my face as if that would get the crystal clear image of free range gonads out of my head. A stringy bunch of crusty hair fell over my gathering brows.
I've been in dumpsters, landfills, back alleys, been puked on, been stuffing food in my lungs now. And yet I can't take a shower.
Lunch finished, and via some wandering did I learn that anyone could get their own notepad and pencil to write. As long as you paid for it. Without my bag, I didn't have any money. I thought about stealing the cash or even the thing itself, but the idea quickly faded. I need to find another way. The few jail documents in my possession weren't an option, either.
Footsteps slowed behind me, approaching the cell door. Watson again? Whoever was at the door did not announce their presence. The silence hardened my stomach. This isn't a guard. I can't defend myself here. Am I gonna get beat up for the millionth time? I kept my back turned, nervous but refusing to show it. Just be cool. Be the Purple Guy.
"Who's th-ere?" I asked the wall.
"I don't mean no trouble, P-Man. I, uh, just wanna talk."
That inmate hadn't given up after all. Why can't he get some big guy to do his dirty work? I clutched my walk supports and faced him. Just tell him off again-
"I-I've heard the tales 'bout you. You were-" he quiets his voice- "-trying to see the ghosts, weren't you?" My hands twitched, and I forced a frown to hide my shock. He knows about them? But I quickly remembered that most common people did. The things that happened at Freddy's in the 80s were little horror stories. He's trying to piece things together. I held my guard.
"Not everybody believes in ghosts. But that restaurant was full o' them. And I bet you got some kinda sixth sense, doing all those blood sacrifices an' being undead…"
Huh? I couldn't help but shake my head in disappointment. The stories get crazier. If people knew the truth, would they treat me differently? Would they lose their fear? Their wonder? Would they think I am innocent? My lips pursed. Probably not. But I was not going to make the weight of my mistakes heavier.
"I am not hurting anyone," I stated my answer clearly, and I bore a stern look to get my point across, though keeping my distance still. He raised his hands.
"And y'know what- that's fine. Just spookin' the guy'll be enough. Teach 'm a lesson. See, he's- he's done some hecka bad stuff. It'll be fun to get back at 'm. And I swear, whatever y' want, I'll get it."
At first, I scowled. There is nothing he could ever possibly get that I want- That notepad came to mind. It wouldn't solve any problems, but it would certainly help a few of them. I don't have to do anything if he can get it for me. I narrowed my eyes. There's easier ways to get this surely. I could- no, I can't work with this broken body. Would they even give the Purple Guy money? Stealing it would be… bad.
I thought about the inmate's offer. I don't have to hurt anyone. Teach someone a lesson. That's a good thing, right? I'd make sure a criminal regrets whatever he did. All I'd have to do is look scary- be intimidating. That's stupid easy. And then I'd get my stuff just like that. But my brain still wasn't convinced. What if I mess it up? Do they know I'm a sneeze away from collapsing? If he's not afraid of me, I could be destroyed. But I do want something to do here other than be trapped with myself. I raised my head. This is an opportunity. I don't have to trust him, I just have to do it. I returned my focus to the inmate and moved forward.
"Deal."
He snatched my hand through the bars to give it a firm shake, exclaiming, "Yes!" And my forearm popped right off. He hollered and thrust the loose limb into my other hand. "Eugh, I'll leave y' to that- I- I gotta get back before they get me again." He vanished down the hall. I frowned at the wires dangling from my arm stub. Dammit… now my arm's falling off? Shaking my head, I shoved the disconnected forearm back into place. It stayed. I wiggled each finger with a slow, shaky motion.
Okay. I can't afford to lose any more mobility here. Why does that guy want me to do this so badly? Am I really a celebrity to him?
"Lights!" The announcement and sudden plunge into darkness didn't make me jump tonight. I directed my heavy body down onto the mat and closed my eyes. Tension stirred my stomach. I planted my arms firmly at my sides.
No more thoughts. Just go to sleep. Don't think about Mr Watson, or that strange inmate, or pretending to be normal. Don't think about anything. Except for sleep. Sleep. The Purple Guy needs his sleep. It's super easy for him that he can do it with his eyes closed. Wait, that's- just go to sleep already.
My eyes opened after several minutes of no progress and spied an odd glowing spot on the ceiling. I sat up. Is that? The bug I killed earlier? Why does it look like that? I tracked the pest as it travelled down the wall and across the floor right to my sleeping mat. Ew- My hand raised to bat the thing away but stopped. Silver-blue light pulsed from underneath its exoskeleton body. Its antennas wagged in my face. What the flip is this? It dared to crawl closer, and I swatted it back into the floor.
"Eeugh, ever h-eard of personal space?"
The glowing cockroach sped out of the cell.