Blankets and Batons.

We sprinted through the rain, the cool droplets cascading around us. Oddly, the wetness didn't register. It was as if the sheer exhilaration of the moment shielded us from the discomfort of the downpour until we found a building popularly known as the Hub. Its official name, "the Center for Something," eludes my memory, but it was a space where tech enthusiasts lived and worked. It had a section fitted with work tables, ergonomic chairs, and the latest laptops. It also had a relaxation area as well, with colorful cushions in various shades. I remember seeing orange and green bean bags, board games, and some well-watered plants.

When we entered the hub, a group of young men paused mid-argument and looked at us like humans stumbling upon a group of aliens. One of the older-looking guys stood and walked toward a group of closets, pulling out two huge blankets. By the time he approached us with the blankets, the group seemed to have moved on, getting back into their interrupted conversation.

The tall 6'4ft guy with thick bottle glasses handed us the blankets and told us we could wait out the rain for as long as we wanted. He also showed me the bathroom in case I needed to use it. We sat down in chairs opposite each other, now shivering as we tried to wrap the blankets around our bodies to get warm. You pulled my chair closer to yours, and I was now facing you directly, my chair between your legs. You pulled me into your arms in what I would presume was an attempt to share body heat. As I raised my head to face you directly, we were eye to eye, lip to lip, and nose to nose. The only thing I could hear was the loud beating of my heart.

"Inmate 2105, you have a visitor." The guard with a buzz cut and trousers that held his groin area so tight yelled out at me with a mischievous smile. "You haven't had visitors in a while, Brenda. Happy occasion?" I looked at him with disgust because, like other guards, he had a way of invading the personal space of the female inmates and touching them inappropriately while wearing a twisted smile on his face, drunk with the power he had over us. An unverified rumor around the prison was that he was the regular shag of some of the inmates and he had outrightly raped some of them.

After being here for 15 years, I was one of the old difficult ones, and as his antics and ridiculous behavior didn't elicit any reactions or comments from me, so he always tried to be provocative. Eagerly looking for a fault, a reaction, a comment, just any reason to hit you hard on the back with his baton or smack you hard across the cheeks. He often walked about with his head held high, expertly twirling his baton through the air, the resulting swishing echo drawing attention from all and sundry. The baton would also make contact with his palm intermittently, creating a rhythm of hits and rubs, all executed with potential menace behind each motion. The other guards wanted to be like him, so they misbehaved often when he was around.

As I finished folding and dropped the last of the towels in my hands onto the trolley, I strolled away from him without as much as casting him a glance and walked towards the visiting area. While I was walking over to see who my visitor was, I wondered who would come after such a long time. Initially, both my parents showed up every week with one or two of my siblings tagging along. My dad rarely said a word during those visits. He would only update me about the case and what our lawyers were doing to get me out. He was never a man of many words, and after my ordeal, he seemed to just shrink more into himself. He would sit in the chairs beside my mom, hands rubbing her back slowly while she held my hands and bawled her eyes out. She was a lively woman who always found a reason to celebrate, but my ordeal just seemed to bring her sorrows. Sorrows, Sorrows, Prayers.

When we were younger, she would blow my dad kisses when he looked too serious and down, and he would spot a smile only she could bring out in him. They were like Yin and Yang, and when I was arrested, they never got through to each other anymore. Her beautiful salt and pepper hair turned all white and she seemed to be run over with grief. Their visits gradually started becoming less frequent when there was no new update from the lawyers. They started coming without my siblings because the prison atmosphere was traumatic for them and they never knew what to say to me. Then, dad started coming without mom. He said she couldn't stand to see me in here, and she always had depressive episodes after she came. Then, he started coming once every couple of months.

I have not seen my parents and siblings for 12 years now. Once in a while, I get letters that give some updates about new jobs, marriages, and new kids with photos attached. I cannot help but feel left out, but it seemed as though I was holding them back. I imagine that when they want to send these letters and pictures, they look for ones that don't show the entire family having so much fun without me. It's sad because I have now come to accept my fate, and I wish my loved ones would be truly happy.

As I arrived at the visiting room, an unexpected sight shocked me to my core. I was expecting a family member — Dad, Mom, or one of my siblings — but it was him. He sat with his back facing me, but I had already spotted him. His demeanor was tense, hands clasped with thumbs nervously circling each other, a habit he always displayed when anxious. I hesitated for a minute; silly me, I wondered how I looked. Then, the realization struck that I was in prison, and a surge of anger coursed through me, causing a visible tremor. Throughout all these years, he had never shown up, not even when my family reached out to him. He claimed to have nothing to say. Yet, here he was. 

As I approached, he stood and uttered, "It's been a long time, Bren."