by Conner Good

Created on: July 05, 2009

The Child on the Other Side of the Ravine

"Patient name: Michael Charles. Patient number: four-one-eight. Age: forty-five. Date institutionalized: February fourth, year 2481. Possible release date: February fourth, year 2523."

He called off the numbers like they were unpleasant school children- the children busy adults didn't want to deal with. The Warden smacked the clipboard on the rotting desk. He unhooked a ring of keys on his belt which jingled and jangled like rusty Christmas bells.

It had been forty-two years since Michael had celebrated Christmas. He didn't even remember back that far.

The Warden wiped his nose and stared straight down at Michael Charles. "Michael. Do you think you're ready to leave this place?"

Michael nodded vigorously, without saying a word. He looked down at the slimy stone floor and watched a small insect scuttle through a dip in the uneven concrete. It scampered out of view. Michael's chained arms hung together at his thighs. He stood as instructed: in the chalk-lined box drawn on the floor. He knew that if he took one step out of the box during his examination, the Warden would send him back to his cell and he would have to wait another year to be released.

The Warden settled himself into an old, squeaky wheelie-chair. He glided it around on the cement behind his desk to tantalize Michael's stolid vision and posture. When the Warden drew bored, he returned to the desk and flipped up the first piece of paper attached to Michael Charles's chart. With fat, grubby fingers, he scanned the pages underneath.

Beads of salty sweat appeared on Michael's dirty brow. He had the urge to wipe it, but the imposing fat figure of the Warden was a warning not to. Michael resisted and focused on the joy that would come from the end of this meeting. He focused on the first thing he would do once he got out from under the crumbling walls of this prison.

He glanced at the room's door. So far away.

"Interesting," the Warden mused. He let the papers fall back to their resting place on the clipboard, and he looked up. "I was just looking at your history, Michael. The reason you were institutionalized here. Do you remember what it was, Michael?"

Michael turned his head away from the door and shook his head, finding a spare rock to stare at. The rock bordered on the lines of the chalk box and the concrete outside it.

The Warden pulled open a desk drawer and selected something from it that looked like a cigarette. He placed it to his lips.

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