"Have you ever had any dreams, Mr. Alric?"
From the interviewer's appearance, I could tell he was indeed an old soul. His short, well-kept hair had long turned a dirty silver. His beard had been recently shaved.
"Dreams?" I echoed back. The word felt alien in a place like this.
"Any I once had died long ago," I chuckled.
I smiled like I didn't care. But I did. My hands gave me away–white-knuckled and trembling. The smile the interviewer had worn for far too long finally faded, letting his expression turn neutral.
*Of course he noticed, those types always do.*
"I assumed so. I have a proposition that will change your life, better than any dream you've imagined. "
He took a note, folded neatly inside one of his jacket's inner pockets and slid it across the metal table. I could barely reach the note. My shackles scraped against the table mounts.
From the moment I met him, I knew he had a deal to get me out. Ironbark was a maximum-security prison capable of holding well over fifty thousand prisoners. Dangerous ones like me were held there for great reasons. My death date was in three weeks, but here, death was seen as a gift.
The note contained an invitation— a program meant for death row inmates like me. The letter promised that if I signed the contract, the government would be willing to erase all of my previous crimes. But if there's one thing I know, it's that high rewards always come with higher risks.
My head raised with interest, which caused him to muster a laugh. Once again bringing that smile, he brushed the newly grown stubble.
"Interested?" he asked.
"So what are the terms?"
"No details. Trust and a signature are all I need."
The response made me immediately slouch. My life was ending in three weeks, freedom sounded like heaven. An offer, I called it a gamble, for death row inmates sounded interesting but no less dangerous.
*Maybe the Government is looking for media points by giving death row inmates a chance?*
My thoughts continued to dwell on. The interviewer put his hands in his jacket, as if signaling that there was no time to think it through. That unyielding smile pressed down on me, making my shoulders sag further. I wanted to ask more, but what good were questions with no answers? My careless facade was long gone. My face was tense with sweat.
*Was I making the right choice?* I asked myself.
I would be going through this blind – only the heavens know what I was signing up for. I sighed deeply, and in response, he tossed a pen onto the table. Shortly after, a guard from the side calls out.
"Sulien Alric, the interview is over."
The guard unshackled me from the table, and the interviewer bid me well. My decision will forever change the course of my life.
My short life of twenty-four years old was supposed to end in three weeks. I never really cared if I died or not. I always thought that I probably deserved what was going to come next.
I killed a man when I was about nineteen. He was one of the good ones too. Whether I meant to kill him or not didn't matter. I remember his eyes turn limp—his body following next.
The murky shade of the grey concrete walls always disgusted me. I spent the next two days wondering whether I'd signed for my freedom, or my last years of life slaving on community work. I took a new view of the cell that I was accustomed to. What once felt like a cage felt like purgatory. I pondered more on why no information was given. Maybe a joke I thought.
After two days, I saw the light, but it didn't last long. The couple of minutes I spent walking to the van I savored. The sun hitting my skin, I regretted wasting so many years in the shade– a thought I still laugh at whenever I remember. They tossed me inside, shoving my head in a black bag.
"You'd wish I'd shoot you here if you knew what was coming, Rat."
The officer laughed before shutting the sliding door, leaving me alone with whoever was inside the van. I noticed that the bag had left a weird scent. Its smell of old piss caused my already churning head to amplify. But that wasn't all. It felt ominous in pure silence as the van drove, until I realized they had been talking all along. The bag was loose, and thin. I should have been able to hear them. Time started to slip until I could no longer notice how long I had been sitting in the van. but one of them began to speak louder until the words were discernible.
"We won't kill ya, if you're wondering." A clear voice yelled.
The tension I felt slightly settled. We went through multiple bumps on the road, which caused my tension to rise once again. The van reeked of sweat and rust. Each jolt in the road made my spine tense further. My orange jumpsuit was smothered with sweat stains.
"I'm glad." I let out a nervous exhale noticing I could barely hear my own voice.
They took off the bag, and the sweat on my forehead caused my hair to stick. Two men lay on the opposite bench that I sat, fully black with masks.
"The bag and masks are for looks. Y'see?" He says, taking off his mask as if trying to prove a point.
The noise-proofness of the bag defied the physics I've known, but I had chosen to ignore it for now.
A white man, crooked nose, clean head with no hair. He gave a slight smile to relieve me, but did quite the opposite. I gave one back. The other man stayed masked. The masked one saw me glance at him.
"Ah, my friend? He's a little ugly, y'see, " he said, trying to take the other man's mask off.
He let him take it off till his chin before slapping him and slipping it back on. It revealed scarred and aged skin. The man chuckled before slapping his hand again when he attempted again.
"Fuck off wontcha!" The scarred one squawked unbearably. He never talked again, but let out slight grunts throughout the drive.
"Anyways, name Eric. Yours, I know. Info? Don't ask. "
The response made me lean back, jaw clenched. The van continued to whatever fate I had tied myself to. I couldn't help but think about what was going to happen.
*What could be worse or even equal to Death Row?*
I kept this mindset throughout the drive. The idea of the government letting death row inmates off the hook seemed impossible to me. There was a catch, yet no information could be given to me. Deep in my thoughts, I was startled when the van suddenly stopped. Eric pointed at the bag, signaling me to put it back on as he put his on.
The two men escorted me toward the building.
"You alright? Breathing through that bag okay?" Eric said, giving a mocking tone. He laughed as we walked inside the building. His remarks made me *physically* resist certain urges while we walked to what I assumed was a receptionist.
"Inmate name?" She said, with a busy, annoyed tone.
"Sulien Alric, Madam," Eric responded.
I was then taken in the hands of an officer, my bag stayed on, along with the shackles I've had on. Several turns, doorways, and patrolling officers later, I entered a room. I instantly heard murmurs and chattering echoes throughout the room. They dragged me toward a noisy group and forced me to my knees.
My knees throbbed against the hard surface. My breaths turned into deep gasps for air through the thick, cotton bag. A couple of moments later, the bag was taken off, revealing a spacious room. Stone Pillars of white marble rose toward the ceiling, light peered inside from the tilted windows above, and the floor gleamed like a mirror made of marble. Most frightening of all, over three hundred souls dressed in orange.