Jomon is trapped inside his nightmare.
He has nothing to do.
No books, no television, no homework, no distractions. He has no way to keep track of the passage of time. He has no way out and no way to get away from the what now question that comes at him like a tidal wave, screaming at him, drowning him. If his feet weren’t bandaged, if he had shoes, maybe he could jump high enough to see out the window, if the window wasn’t so grimy.
But his feet are sore and he doesn’t want the bandages to come off, in case they don’t give him new ones.
WHAT IS THERE NOW?
He tries to sleep. He can’t.
He pictures Officer Grant going home to her kids and cooking them breakfast. He imagines their sleepy faces, their chirpy voices. It all makes him feel more alone.
As bad as his life was before, it’s worse now. Before, he had his routine and the possibility that things might get better, that he would outrun the emptiness chasing him.
He misses the what now of yesterday. Yesterday, he could sometimes come up with an answer, like work hard at school, earn some money and hide it from Dad.
Today, there is no point even trying.
He suffers through every long Saturday minute. Some prisoners sober up and leave and new ones come in. Jomon eats the meals of rice and peas, chewing without tasting. He smells the Dettol-soaked mops that are swirled back and forth between the cells.
Prisoners call out to him all day long — some friendly, some nosy, some disgusting, some mean. Jomon doesn’t say a word.
Inside his head, the emptiness shows him his future.
There is sure to be something in the news about the broken window at the liquor store. Would they give his name?
Jomon can’t remember if the names of teen criminals are printed in the paper or not. He’s never paid attention to that before, since teen criminals had nothing to do with him. If his name isn’t printed, they would print that a first-place geography medal was found at the scene. People would easily figure out who it belonged to. His school, his teammates, even that annoying politician who wanted him to work for free would know. They would say, “Oh, that rotten Jomon, shame on us for putting our faith in such a nothing boy.”
He attends a public high school, so they will have to take him back when he gets out of jail — if he gets out — but they won’t want him representing the school again. Without scholarship money he’ll never be able to afford to go to university, and even if he could get work to pay for his tuition, would the university let in a criminal?
The daylight outside the small window gives way to dusk. The bright lights come on in the ceiling of the hallway. Jomon faces another night in lockup, then another day, then another night, and then court, where no one will stand with him to bail him out and take him home. More jail time will follow, and when he gets out, what?
The future that seemed hopeless yesterday seems glorious compared with what he pictures now.
Instead of graduating with a college degree, then getting a decent job in an office with a clean shirt and a good salary, he’ll have to work much harder for less money. That’s if anyone will hire him with a criminal record. And who would want him as a boyfriend — or a husband? No one, and why would they? He’ll be all alone with a lousy job, bitter about life, probably drinking, probably hitting any woman who tries to come near him, just like his father hit his mother.
Why put himself and the world through that? The least he could do would be to spare others from having to deal with him.
Jomon’s grandfather killed himself. His father often brought that up when he was drinking.
“The old man offed himself,” Jomon can hear his father saying, with slurred words and boozy spit. “He didn’t love me. And you don’t love me. I’m going to do what my old man did. You wait.”
And Jomon would say, “No, I love you, Mum loves you. Don’t do it!”
Jomon used to say that. He hasn’t said it in a while. He hasn’t said anything to his father in a while.
Jomon feels a flutter of hope in his chest. Maybe there is a way out of all this after all.
If it’s good enough for my grandfather.
He looks around the cell.
There is a place where the bars in the door meet the bars in the wall — a crossbar, a place to tie something.
He looks down at his school uniform shirt ...
“It won’t be that easy,” says a voice.
Jomon is startled. He looks in the direction of the voice.
It’s coming from a boy around his age sitting in the cell across from him.
Jomon thinks he must have fallen asleep without realizing it. He doesn’t remember the police bringing the other boy in.
“It’s not that easy to hang yourself,” the boy says again. “You get the knot wrong, you’ll fall. You fall the wrong way, you break your spine and then you’re alive but can’t move. And even if you do it right, which is unlikely, it takes a long time to die by hanging. A long, painful time.”
Jomon turns his back on the boy.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here,” says the boy. “And just because your mind thinks you want to die, don’t count on your body agreeing. Your body will fight to stay alive. So, even if you get the knot right — which, again, is unlikely — you’ll be up there fighting with yourself, getting your neck scarred up, probably pooping your pants, and at the end of it all, you’ll be on the floor with a messed-up neck and poopy trousers. How does that make anything better?”
“Shut up,” Jomon says, still with his back to the boy.
“I won’t shut up. I’m telling you things you need to know. Although it doesn’t really matter anyway because you take one step toward what you are thinking about doing, and I’ll raise such a stink that every cop for miles around will come running to save you. Look at me when I’m talking to you! Give me some respect.”
Jomon whips his head around.
“Why the hell should I respect you?”
The boy in the other cell just smiles and answers calmly.
“Because I am your great-great-grandfather. That’s why.”