Chapter 10

“I would like to call another witness,” said the prosecutor. Margaret was walking down the wooden stairs, the sound of her heels hitting one step after another, was becoming more and more quiet. John was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the bars, looking ahead at the judges. He was breathing heavily while rubbing his ribs and liver area. His face was distorted by pain and fear.

“Can I, um, can I get some more water? I’m really thirsty,” he said to the creature standing next to the cage and carrying the long wooden stick. It looked at John, took a few steps ahead to the prosecutor and said something to him. The prosecutor turned around, looked at John, then said something back to the creature, which came back to its initial spot, next to the cage.

“Well? Where’s my water?” John asked, but the creature only looked at him briefly, didn’t say a word, and froze to the spot. John licked his lips with his almost completely dry tongue and put his elbows on his bent knees. He leaned his head against the bars and wondered what was happening. He had a feeling the air was at least a hundred degrees, and he was sweating, thirsty, and the pain pulsing bluntly under his skin in the abdomen area wasn’t letting him go. John sighed and dried his forehead with his palm.

Someone was now walking up the stairs. The steps were steady, regular. Whoever was coming next, wasn’t hesitating.

“Your honor, I would like to introduce another witness, Margaret Smith’s son, Mickey,” the prosecutor said, and John immediately got up. The pain he felt around his lower ribs tore through his body, but he almost didn’t notice it as he swiftly walked towards the front of his cage, and placed his hands on the bars, wrapping his fists around them The creature reacted by raising the pole a bit, but seeing John wasn’t causing any trouble this time, it remained in its place.

Mickey came up, walked towards the prosecutor, without a trace of hesitation. He briefly looked at John, their eyes met for a split second, and John was struck by how cold and indifferent they were.

“Hey, son,” he said quietly, and even though he was absolutely positive Mickey had heard him, the boy simply passed him and didn’t even bother to say anything back. He took his witness seat, guided by the prosecutor, and was now facing the three judges.

“Mr. Smith, how long have you been John Smith’s step son?” the prosecutor asked.

“Technically seventeen years; since I was three years old.”

“Why ‘technically’”?

“Because I suppose I still am, John hasn’t yet divorced my mother, so I guess I’m his step son. I’m not even sure I stop being one once they do divorce. I mean, I hope, but I don’t know.”

“Why do you hope for John Smith to stop being your step father once he divorces your mother?” the judge sitting on the left side asked him. John realized he almost stopped breathing while waiting for an answer; he was so focused to hear it well.

“Because I believe it would be better for both of us if he stopped. Because I have clearly been a burden for him, a ballast, and as for me, he has practically never been there for me anyway, so it wouldn’t be a great loss on my side,” Mickey said and smiled bitterly as he added, “it’d be a win-win situation for us both.”

John closed his eyes and felt a tear falling down his cheek. He knew, without a trace of doubt, that his situation was becoming more and more dramatic with every second. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he knew it was only a dream, a nightmare that was haunting him. Perhaps his conscience was knocking on the door, but he was really scared. John no longer was confused; he was literally terrified. Not of the prosecutor, not of the judges, not even of the creature standing there on his right side, ready to poke him painfully for breathing too loudly. He was scared of what was going to happen to him after all of this was over. What the verdict would be. How would it be executed? John sat down on the floor again as he felt his knees shake. He felt a panic attack coming closer again; its unpleasant bitter taste was already up his throat and on his taste buds.

“Can you elaborate on that?” the prosecutor asked.

“John Smith,” Mickey sighed, “ruined my mother’s health, and has never been present in my life as a father figure. He missed practically all of my school plays, he hardly ever helped me with my homework, and he barely came to my basketball games. I used to be one of the top scorers in the high school league in the area. An MVP in the majority of games played every season. He came to see me play exactly three times, and once he’d left before the second quarter ended. I know, because I saw him leaving. I was sitting on the bench, and spotted him making his way out of the aisle. Then, I spotted my mom sitting alone, surrounded by the enthusiastic crowd of parents, cousins, uncles, and aunts cheering, and clapping and whistling. She was sitting alone, and her eyes were empty, and I remember it hurt me even more than the fact he had left. It was one of the most important games of the season. We won, because I hit a homer, and two of our guys were on bases. I scored three points, seconds before the game ended. I looked at my mom then, happy, so, so proud, but she only smiled a bit, sent me a kiss and I could see she wasn’t really there. Physically yes, but not mentally. So yeah, I blame John Smith not only for taking a large part of my mom’s life away from her, but at the same time for taking away an opportunity for a normal childhood from me. Something that can never be replaced,” Mickey said and sighed heavily. His voice was firm, he was talking slowly, loudly, wanted to make sure everyone heard exactly what he had to say.

“I understand it’s all difficult, but is there anything else you’d like to tell us?” the woman judge asked delicately.

“Not really. Maybe only this—I will always have a problem forgiving myself for trying so hard, for so long, to impress him, to make him proud, to get his attention. It’s all different when you’re a kid, such things matter. You want your dad’s approval, a handshake, a pat on the shoulder, whatever,” he sighed, “and in my case, he was basically never around. I tried to talk to him about my problems with my girlfriend; I remember I was sixteen then, and it was an important thing for me. He laughed it off, told me that such problems at my age were simply ridiculous and that there was nothing to talk about, it was just a teenage love affair that we would all be laughing about in a few months. I remember I was in such a bad condition then… she rejected me, first used me, then rejected me, then humiliated me. I was bullied for over a year and a half because of her. At - at some point I was seriously contemplating suicide…” A stifled groan bounced off the walls as the observers manifested their shock. The judge sitting on the right hit the wooden tray with the gavel demanding silence, Mickey sniffed delicately, but his voice, as he continued, was as loud and firm as at the beginning, “and, to be honest my mom helped me a lot. She had time for me. That was all I actually needed. Time and some attention. It was-it was a really difficult time.”

“How would you describe your relationship now?”

“Now? You mean since he left mom?”

“Precisely so.”

“Indifferent. He met with me twice. Lied about where he was living. Doesn’t call, doesn’t come to the house. There’s actually one very positive thing about this whole situation, about the fact he’d left. My mom stopped drinking. Instantly. I guess she was so shaken by him moving out, that it worked better than any rehab.”

“So, I guess I did at least one thing right,” said John and smiled bitterly. The creature with the stick came closer to the front of the cage, holding its weapon already high up, but the prosecutor reached out his hand in a gesture demanding it to step back to its place.

“Do you have any idea why John Smith has failed you so many times?”

“He always had an excuse as to why he was busy. There was always something in the way. And if not, he was then having a quarrel with my mom and neither of them wanted to see each other. I really don’t care anymore.”

“Your honor, may I present you evidence showing that John Smith was actually seeing his lovers or his friend Paul. None of the things that, theoretically, should be more important than the only child waiting for a little bit of attention.”

“What?” John asked loudly and got up. He immediately felt a powerful hit behind his knees, forcing him to bend them and kneel down. Mickey turned around, looked at him, and John could have sworn he saw a grim look of satisfaction on Mickey’s face. It was very short, almost invisible, but it was surely there.

“Here is the list of John Smith’s whereabouts during the moments Mickey Smith was talking about. The reason why he missed so many games was very trivial; while the house was empty and the family was busy, he was meeting with his lovers, here you can see a picture of his car parked next to one of his lovers’, Miranda’s, house,” the prosecutor was giving the judges pieces of paper, one by one, as he continued to enlist, “here are his text messages exchanged with other women, Catherine, Hannah, Rhonda, and as you can see in each of them he confirms he would have two-three hours of free time, depending on how much time it would take Margaret to drive her son to the game and back. The dates, the numbers, it’s all there. Making perfect sense. To be fair, John Smith did have to work, and travel while doing so, many times, but he came to support his son only three times during all those years, and we know for a fact he was home much more often than that.”

The judges were looking at the pieces of papers, reading and analyzing them, shaking their heads with disbelief, looking at John from a distance with disdain displayed on their faces. John realized the world before his eyes was turning pale, white, and finally, disappeared altogether.

“Do you have any other questions?” the judge sitting on the left from the woman judge asked the prosecutor.

“No, I think everything’s clear.”

John woke up grasping the air in panic. He was breathing fast, while nervously blinking his eyes, trying to snap out of the nightmare as soon as possible. He reached his hand towards the night stand wanting to grab a glass with water, but it fell on the floor, and broke, and all of the liquid quickly soaked the carpet. John turned the light on and sat up. He was covering his eyes to help them get used to the new conditions and looked at the clock next to the bed. It was 3.30 a.m.

When he felt his pulse coming back to normal, he walked to the kitchen, took a glass from the cabinet, poured himself some cold tap water, and when he finished, put it aside. He didn’t even bother to look at it as it fell on the floor, smashing into pieces. He bent over the sink and started drinking ravenously, straight from the tap. He then splashed some of the running water on his face and neck and finally put his whole head into the sink and allowed the cold liquid to soak it entirely.

About half an hour later, John came back to the bedroom, but not to sleep, as he was sure he wouldn’t be able to catch another wink. He was too scared to even try. He came back to, as crazy as it sounded, check to see if the belt was lying on his bed. It wasn’t. No it wasn’t, not at four a.m. John did spot it, though, when he came back to the bedroom about three hours later. He looked at it, sat right next to it, and started crying. Uncontrollably.