I can't remember what he looked like. Looks like. I know that he'd have my thick, black hair. I have to get it from somewhere, because everyone else is in my family is blonde. When I look in the mirror I see my mother's features. Well, normally I would. Today I have haunting, sunken eyes and stubble you could polish a shoe with. Thankfully Mum doesn't share those features. I would've usually laughed at that mental image.
"This way." The guard leads me through yet another long hallway with more doors, locked on both sides. It's dank and stale, even in the hallways. I imagine this is the smell of regret. We reach a large metal door with a thick glass window, just large enough to see the face of a guard peering back at us. The guard leading me unlocks his side and nods through the small window. The door opens and we pass the other guard, who simply nods back. I wonder if they would act differently if I weren't here.
Walking the long corridors gives me time to think once more. But it's no use. My sleepless night was fruitless. I still have no idea what to do with him.
The guard opens what appears to be the last door and points down the hall.
"Final cell."
"Thank you."
***
The drive home is surprisingly painless. The chatter of the radio fills the car and makes me feel alone. It's almost like he wasn't even sitting in the back. I could've just been driving home from work, like always...
"This is a really nice area."
...and I'm dragged kicking and screaming back to reality.
"Yeah, it's where I live."
"This is a really nice area, Kid."
Kid.
***
The bags are surprisingly light to carry up to the guest bedroom. I guess twelve years leaves you with only the necessities. I put the suitcase on the bed next to the towel I bought for him. For a moment we just stand and stare at the old suitcase, its corners tattered and discoloured.
"Well I'll leave you to it then. If you need anything, just yell out."
He nods in my direction without looking up and begins to unzip his suitcase. He must have caught some of the air in his cell when he zipped it up. I inhale deeply and once again smell the coarse redolence of regret. Not the ideal lung-full of air for what I was about to say.
"Umm..."
"Yeah, Kid?"
I falter and begin to look around the room, "I'll start getting dinner ready."
I walk slowly down the stairs into the kitchen and start pulling pans from the draws under the stove. I stop for a moment and glance up the stairs to his room.
Nothing.
***
I start setting the table, placing the knives and forks beside the plates and putting coasters down for the glasses. I can hear him open his door and stride slowly down the stairs, missing every second one with his giant steps. I look up when he reaches the bottom. He's wearing a new shirt and neatly pressed pants.
"You're going a bit formal?"
His cheeks glow pink and his hands search his body and run through his thick black hair before finally scratching his stubbly beard.
"'Good Luck' gifts from the guards. Wanted to look my best for Becky." He starts fussing over his worn belt. Obviously it wasn't one of the presents from the guards.
I step forward so he can't see the set table.
He looks up.
"Hey Kid, do you mind if I borrow a razor? They didn't let me get a new one and mine's like shaving with broken glass." He looks in my direction, expecting laugh, a smile, some form of recognition. I could only stare at his shoes.
The insects in my garden are chorusing the evening.
"Look. I should have told you in the car." I stare into his pale blue eyes for the first time in twelve years.
His face turns downwards and the chirping of the insects in my garden grows louder.
"Becky's not coming to see me, is she?"
"She doesn't like being called Becky anymore."
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