Chapter 3 #3
“This is ridiculous!” Officer Downey said, his voice echoing throughout the bus.
He slammed his hand against the iron partition.
The sudden noise jolted me from a half sleep, and I blinked into flashing red-and-blue lights.
We had been driving for almost two hours by now.
I glanced out the window, taking in trees, the sky stretching out above them.
I thought I would want this, a fleeting glimpse of the world outside.
But I didn’t. It was a reminder of everything I’d lost and everything I couldn’t reach. I closed my eyes again.
“Can you see what it is?” Officer Downey asked Officer Madison as the bus slowed to a crawl. Officer Madison stood and approached Officer Manziel, sitting in the driver’s seat. “Not yet,” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s pretty bad. Traffic has completely stopped.”
“Damn it,” Officer Downey said, standing up quickly. “We’re going to be late.”
“This is not our fault,” Officer Madison said, her voice firm yet gentle. “They’ll understand.”
“I promised my daughter I’d be at her dance recital,” Officer Downey said. “I told her I would be there.” He huffed in frustration.
“We’re not that far from Newberry,” Officer Manziel said, turning his head back to look at them. “We could take 34 to Chappells, then 702 up to Coronaca.”
“Yeah?” Officer Downey said, perking up at this lifeline.
“Yeah…I’ve driven those roads a couple of times before. I go fishing with a buddy of mine around there,” Officer Manziel said.
“We haven’t been sanctioned to detour,” Officer Madison said. “We should stick to the approved route.” It was her nature to be cautious. She might have loosened my cuffs and shackles, but that didn’t mean she didn’t take her job seriously. She didn’t often outright break the rules.
Officer Downey waved a dismissive hand. “C’mon, Deborah. They ain’t gotta know. I can’t miss this.”
Officer Madison relented, knowing she was outnumbered, and returned to her seat. On the way, she looked at me and shrugged. I, in turn, looked at Loretta, who mirrored my confusion.
No way any of us could have predicted the outcome. No way we could have predicted a deer in the road. Or what happened next.
It wasn’t their fault.
I turned off the TV and folded my hands in my lap, letting my fingers press against each other.
I breathed. Like prison, this place was quiet but not silent.
In prison, there was a cell door slamming in the distance, the jangle of a guard’s keys, the occasional groan of pipes behind the walls, proof of one ecosystem evolving into ambient static.
A steady pulse that made the isolation feel almost comfortable.
Here, it was different.
The mini refrigerator grumbled on, its low hum a protest against the quiet.
Beyond the walls, the world stirred with the comings and goings of guests, the soft click of doors opening and closing, the muffled shuffle of footsteps.
It wasn’t loud—it was there, a subtle undercurrent to the silence.
It felt unnerving. The world outside moved, but I wasn’t sure I knew how to join it.
I cried, a small, empty sound, a half sob. Pressure against cracking glass.
A human can only hold so much emotion for so long.
But I could not identify what had unfolded within me.
The tears flowed, slick and stinging, and the decision I’d made, and what lay before me, crashed over me.
My shoulders shook with each heave, my nose tingling with the sting of salty tears until none were left to shed.
The truth hurts when it slaps you in the face.
I was an escaped felon.
“Nobody cares about your tears,” the voices echoed in my mind, in unison yet separately, both condemning tears as a sign of weakness.
The tears stopped just as quickly as they started.
They didn’t belong here, outside of the body.
This would be the last time I cried—allowed myself to cry—for several months.
So down it went: the guilt, the worry. Swallowed along with everything else, finding a home amid the numbness that anchored me. For the last five years, this had been my shield. Nothing can hurt you if you don’t let it, don’t give it a place to live. Emotions, I reasoned, solved nothing, anyway.
The physical pain took over again, and I remembered the bathtub just a few feet away.
It had been years since I soaked in hot water, and I shivered at the thought.
I turned on the tap, the water hissing as it filled the tub, and dipped a toe in to check the temperature, then my whole foot, before easing in.
The water jostled and made room for me. I can still remember it, the way every muscle seemed to sigh, every cell loosening.
In the warm water, consequence shrank. If freedom had a sensation, it was this: a tub of hot water over bruised bones, quieting the clamor of thoughts and emotions.
Afterward, I barricaded the door to the outside with a chair, its back and legs wedged firmly.
I did not want to sleepwalk tonight. Then I stretched out across the worn-out bed and sank into its welcoming embrace.
With a sigh, I closed my eyes, and almost immediately sleep found me, as quiet and heavy as the dark.