MICHAEL WAS TEN YEARS OLD when he realized that the world wanted him dead and gone. He had not yet grown enough to fit in the courthouse chair that he was forced to sit in during his trial, and he had not grown enough to fit the judgment that was passed down on him, but it was voiced by both the judge and the newspapers that he would never grow out of being the monster they thought he was. At ten years of age, the world had already measured his full potential and concluded that there was absolutely no hope that the boy from Coldwater would ever contribute to a just and civil society.
He was led out of the courthouse, loaded in a van, and taken downstate to one of the supermax penitentiaries. When Michael arrived, the warden had no idea what to do with him. The man was used to dealing with the worst psychopaths in the state who were dropped off at his door, but looking down on a young boy who was scared out of his mind left him baffled.
How was he going to keep this kid safe from a zoo of predators and killers, a kid who himself was, as the reporters described him, a killer?
Michael was led by a large guard down the detention block to a door near the guard station. The thin window over the lock was too high for Michael to peer through, but soon the door was opened and Michael saw into the cell. There was a bed, a metal toilet, and a desk. The guard ushered him in, and Michael walked in and sat on the bed.
“This is your place. Guards are just over there. Anybody mess with you, just start yelling.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” the guard said, as he reluctantly turned and walked toward the cell door, seemingly unsure if he was doing the right thing by leaving a kid in here. The guard had kids at home Michael’s age, and he couldn’t help imagining their own little selves locked in this cell. But he did his duty, stepped out, and locked the door.
The catcalls started almost immediately. The sycophants and lunatics, the pedophiles and terminally incarcerated, yelling obscenities, threats, and promises at the child behind cell door number 20. Their voices bled through the walls, calling for Michael, offering friendship of a kind that was anything but.
He pulled his feet up onto the bed and curled up in the corner like a baby snuggling against its mother. He put the pillow over his head and began to cry silently, afraid that if he wailed, the voices would hear him and come in even larger numbers.
And he wondered if the world was right in wanting him gone.
All he ever wanted was to be noticed. To be valued. And in this cell he realized that he had gotten what he wanted in the worst twisted and vile way. He was now the center of attention to an army of the deranged.