Tommy knows the day because he can remember something of it. Not the whole day or anything, but what he does remember, he see just like he is at the movies. Third row and centre, staring at the back of his family's heads, even his own. Sometimes he wonders if that makes it a false memory. Momma has never described the blood splatters on the wall, the spit coming out of his father's mouth, though this is what Tommy remembers the most. He doesn't know why he standing beside them in the middle of the living room, when his father ordered him to his bedroom to nap, because the memory begins with him sitting beside his father on the couch. Tommy also remembers on the way to his bed, touching his mother’s blood while his own raced straight to his heart, so scared he'd be caught, pressing his whole palm in the mess on the wall quickly as he walked by, but he wasn’t.
Momma tells him that it happened a few weeks before his Dad was set to move out, when the little one-bedroom apartment across town would be ready for him. "He still expected me to make his meals, have his lunch and supper ready when he walked through the door,” Momma told him once, then squared her shoulders and beaded her eyes to imitate his father, "You will treat me like a man in front of my children." Momma didn't think her husband was much of a man. "So, that day I made him soup for lunch and stuck half a bottle of mustard into it while it was heating up and when stirred and tasted it I thought, yep, that's about right and I served it up to him at the living room table. That's how this happened."
Momma looked so sad when she was talking about, so Tommy never mentioned the blood, the look on his father's face.
"Maybe she looked so sad because she was remembering these things too."
"Yes,” Tommy agrees, "I think she was. And I also think she probably doesn't want to know that I remember them. Who wants their kid to remember that?"
And Ms. Kelly sits back in her chair, crossing her arms over her stomach. She feels she has heard some truth. A truth she should have known a long time ago. Certainly before this kid. She feels a wash of shame slowly sliding down her face, like a thick cream soup, and wonders to herself again: What am I doing here?
Tommy's been coming to see her for three months now and he trusts her. He mistakes her interest as loyalty, as someone on his side. She does enjoy the time she spends with Tommy because most of the other boys ignore her or grunt at her, and Tommy likes to tell his stories. But most of the boys are not held here long, a few weeks tops. Tommy has been in here for months and she has no idea how to help him. Keeping them docile in the short-term are her only goals. Typically, she hands out a lot of pills.
"What do you remember next?"
"My sister and I jumping up and down in front of the living room window. We could see our father walking up the street to our house and he had a big cage. We were really excited."
"That sounds like a good memory."
"I don't remember what ever happened to that bird. Or even if it had a name."
"Time's almost up. Having any trouble sleeping these days, Tommy?"
"I don't want your pills. Can't you get me a joint? Like one a day is all I need. I have this pain that won't go away..."
"Tommy. No. I can't do that."
"I bet you they would let me in the Netherlands."
"I'm pretty sure the troubled youth are not prescribed pot there either, Tommy. See you next week."
"But would you? If you could?" he asks her.
This is an interim jail. Between the sentence or freedom. Lots come in already knowing of him and then there's the reruns; like this fucking Ralph guy who’s been here four times now and likes to thinks he's tough and is always yelling out or cocking his fist at Tommy. Maybe Ralph is tough in a way. He’s always in and out. Three days tops. Good lawyer. So really, Ralph is the least of his problems. Because there is always others tough enough to yell out and make threats. But nothing else. That's the good thing about being known in jail. The criminal streets whisper your name. They know coming in not to touch him.
Two days later, Tommy is made to move to a new cell. More specifically, to the Fag's cell. Since the Fag came in, about two weeks ago, a lot of heat has been taken off of Tommy. But now...what the fuck is going on? He is being taken out of his single cell, his refuge. And has to share a cell with THE FAG? Tommy’s mind is raging, his guts sickening, as the guards walk him over. They've been gang attacking the Fag. He's heard murmurs that the other night some of them got him with their toothbrushes, but who knows how. Guards would have to let shit like that happen.
Tommy learns something that night about what guards can let happen. It is deep night when the piercing white light enters the room and Tommy’s sleeping body crunches up, blocking it with his hands. Then sudden awareness, fear almost flooding his pants, he has been waiting for this. He sits up and backs himself against the cold wall.
"Shut-up," the Fag hisses from his bed, but Tommy doesn't need to be told. The light goes out and he waits to hear the keys opening the door, but instead he hears the Fag rustling around and this starts to scare him too, until the Fag says, "I got some hash. You want tokes?"
They huddle on the Fag's bunk, and Tommy tries not to think about where the Fag's lips may have been when he passes him the small pipe and lighter.
"What's it like killing a 12 year old little girls? “the Fag enquires.
"I didn't kill her. What's it like being a faggot fucking little 12 year old boys?"
The Fag just chuckles softly. "I believe you, man. And I'm not a homosexual."
Momma tells him that it happened a few weeks before his Dad was set to move out, when the little one-bedroom apartment across town would be ready for him. "He still expected me to make his meals, have his lunch and supper ready when he walked through the door,” Momma told him once, then squared her shoulders and beaded her eyes to imitate his father, "You will treat me like a man in front of my children." Momma didn't think her husband was much of a man. "So, that day I made him soup for lunch and stuck half a bottle of mustard into it while it was heating up and when stirred and tasted it I thought, yep, that's about right and I served it up to him at the living room table. That's how this happened."
Momma looked so sad when she was talking about, so Tommy never mentioned the blood, the look on his father's face.
"Maybe she looked so sad because she was remembering these things too."
"Yes,” Tommy agrees, "I think she was. And I also think she probably doesn't want to know that I remember them. Who wants their kid to remember that?"
And Ms. Kelly sits back in her chair, crossing her arms over her stomach. She feels she has heard some truth. A truth she should have known a long time ago. Certainly before this kid. She feels a wash of shame slowly sliding down her face, like a thick cream soup, and wonders to herself again: What am I doing here?
Tommy's been coming to see her for three months now and he trusts her. He mistakes her interest as loyalty, as someone on his side. She does enjoy the time she spends with Tommy because most of the other boys ignore her or grunt at her, and Tommy likes to tell his stories. But most of the boys are not held here long, a few weeks tops. Tommy has been in here for months and she has no idea how to help him. Keeping them docile in the short-term are her only goals. Typically, she hands out a lot of pills.
"What do you remember next?"
"My sister and I jumping up and down in front of the living room window. We could see our father walking up the street to our house and he had a big cage. We were really excited."
"That sounds like a good memory."
"I don't remember what ever happened to that bird. Or even if it had a name."
"Time's almost up. Having any trouble sleeping these days, Tommy?"
"I don't want your pills. Can't you get me a joint? Like one a day is all I need. I have this pain that won't go away..."
"Tommy. No. I can't do that."
"I bet you they would let me in the Netherlands."
"I'm pretty sure the troubled youth are not prescribed pot there either, Tommy. See you next week."
"But would you? If you could?" he asks her.
This is an interim jail. Between the sentence or freedom. Lots come in already knowing of him and then there's the reruns; like this fucking Ralph guy who’s been here four times now and likes to thinks he's tough and is always yelling out or cocking his fist at Tommy. Maybe Ralph is tough in a way. He’s always in and out. Three days tops. Good lawyer. So really, Ralph is the least of his problems. Because there is always others tough enough to yell out and make threats. But nothing else. That's the good thing about being known in jail. The criminal streets whisper your name. They know coming in not to touch him.
Two days later, Tommy is made to move to a new cell. More specifically, to the Fag's cell. Since the Fag came in, about two weeks ago, a lot of heat has been taken off of Tommy. But now...what the fuck is going on? He is being taken out of his single cell, his refuge. And has to share a cell with THE FAG? Tommy’s mind is raging, his guts sickening, as the guards walk him over. They've been gang attacking the Fag. He's heard murmurs that the other night some of them got him with their toothbrushes, but who knows how. Guards would have to let shit like that happen.
Tommy learns something that night about what guards can let happen. It is deep night when the piercing white light enters the room and Tommy’s sleeping body crunches up, blocking it with his hands. Then sudden awareness, fear almost flooding his pants, he has been waiting for this. He sits up and backs himself against the cold wall.
"Shut-up," the Fag hisses from his bed, but Tommy doesn't need to be told. The light goes out and he waits to hear the keys opening the door, but instead he hears the Fag rustling around and this starts to scare him too, until the Fag says, "I got some hash. You want tokes?"
They huddle on the Fag's bunk, and Tommy tries not to think about where the Fag's lips may have been when he passes him the small pipe and lighter.
"What's it like killing a 12 year old little girls? “the Fag enquires.
"I didn't kill her. What's it like being a faggot fucking little 12 year old boys?"
The Fag just chuckles softly. "I believe you, man. And I'm not a homosexual."
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