Over Your Head

When Tommy woke-up he found himself staring up at the ceiling and then at the window, up too high. Not right.
The sunlight coming in the room was leaving dusty rays on the window sill and in the air.
What the fuck...? Tommy could not understand anything. He sat up fast, his bare feet hitting cold cement. He was suddenly alert; his eyes scanning.
"Oh, fuck," he whispered. "Oh, fuck."
White painted bars. Steel toliet. Bars. Bars. Bars.
Fucking bars...Where the fuck are my shoes?
"Oh, fuck," Tommy squeaked. He felt dizzy.
He focused his eyes on his feet; stretched them across the steel. He noticed the bottom of his jeans were damp and itchy against his skin.
"Don't puke, Tommy," he said outloud.
Why the fuck am I here?
Tommy called out, "Hello...?"
But no one answered.
On shaky feet, Tommy made his way to the bars. "Hello...Hello..."
He looked down the hallway as far as he could, noticed he was in the last cell. Noticed the white video camera up in the corner.
"What the fuck?" he yelled. "Hello."
He grabbed the jail cell bars and tried to shake them. "What the fuck?"
And the officer who came down the hallway had gray hair and shiny black boots. "Just calm down, Son."
But Tommy didn't want to do that.
" What the fuck? Why am I in here? Let me the fuck out of here." He clenched at the bars, until his knuckles went white. He let go, when he noticed the officer watching his knucles, too.
"I think you know why you are here, Son. Your mother will be here soon."
"What? I don't want her here. You tell her fucking not to come."
"Then you will never get out of here, Son," the officer reasoned, with the angry boy.
"Where the fuck are my shoes?" Tommy screamed in the officer's face and slammed himself against the bars; his last-ditch effort at being brave because he could feel the tears coming on.
"So young and so vicious and so frail," the officer sang, as he turned his boots around and walked back down the hallway.
Tommy threw himself back onto the metal bed.
And then Tommy cried.

Time kept dragging on. Momma did not come for hours. Tommy listened for the whistling trains as they left town. Four of them went by, before she arrived.

When she came, her face was gray and her dress was yellow. Her white shoes moved slow down the hall. She clutched the cold, white bars of his cell; keeping her eyes on the concrete floor.
Tommy did not get up from the bed. Just looked at her. "What the fuck is going on, Momma?" he finally asked, when she did nothing.
And her laugh was bitter and when she looked up her eyes were anger. "You little bastard, you stole my fucking last bottle of vodka."
"Oh, my God. Is that why I am fucking here? Did you fucking call the cops on me Momma? Holy fuck."
"Shut the fuck up, Tommy. They found you passed out and stinkin' in the fucking park."
And Tommy knew it was true.
She shook her head and snorted at him. "Samantha is dead."
And Tommy knew that was true, too.
"Do you fucking kill her, Tommy? Did you fucking kill her?" He watched Momma lose grip of the bars, collapsing low to the ground, onto her knees. She clutched at her thin sides. She shook. She whimpered. "Did you fucking kill her?"
And Tommy did not get off the painted bed. He just turned his head, so he did not have to watch her cry.
"God will forgive you, if you tell the truth, Tommy. God, just tell them the truth when they ask you, Tommy."
And Tommy snapped his head towards. He could taste the scream in his mouth. "Just get the fuck out of here, Momma. Get the fuck out. You fucking pitiful whore, Momma, just go."