Freedom: Scenes from a Crucible

2023 Gibberish Competition | Challenge 3

Here it is, folks! My entry for the third and final challenge in the 2023

Gibberish

Competition: the Grand Adventure.

The Last Stand

This was a fun and challenging story to write, and I hope you enjoy it!

Word Count: 3929

---

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

“What’s your name?” asked the man in the orange jumper as he sat down on the orthodontic chair.

“Matthew Bailey,” replied the man standing at a small desktop computer in the corner of the room.

“Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Chris.”

“Whatever.” Matthew didn’t have the time or the interest in getting to know any of the folks brought into his office.

“Look, Matthew, I need you to be honest with me. I’ve heard rumors about this place, and they don’t sit right with me. What’s all this about folks coming out of here with amnesia? Don’t remember who they are or why they’re in here?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Matthew didn’t even bother to look up as he logged into his computer. He hoped that his tone would tell Chris to shut up. Chris didn’t take the hint.

“It all sounds a little off, doesn’t it? But it gets weirder - these guys, they come outta here not knowing their own name, and then they get their sentences cut short, shiny new careers, early chance at freedom? Seems almost too good to be true.”

“Probably is,” Matthew replied, barely listening, as he gathered his supplies. Helmet and goggles, check. Earplugs, check. Sedative, check.

“Do you know anything about any of this, man? You work here, don’t you? Do you hear any of these rumors? Do you know how much of it’s true and how much of it’s just stuff they make up to scare the new guys?”

“Mhmm.”

Matthew tuned out the chatter completely as he entered autopilot. He guided the man in his chair into a reclined position, fastened the restraints at his wrists and ankles, and secured the helmet and goggles in place. Launching into a memorized speech, he inserted the needle into the man’s arm and waited for his body to go limp.

Five minutes later, on the dot, another man showed up. Wordlessly, he and Matthew unstrapped Chris, lifted him, and carried him through a door into the simulation chamber. A generic town square that could be any suburb in America greeted them, and they set Chris down on a bench. Matthew injected him with a second vial - one that would reawaken him in a few minutes - and the two employees slipped back out into the antechamber, where the now-empty orthodontic chair was being wiped down for the next inmate. Matthew resumed his station at the computer, tweaking a few settings and switching on a recording device.

He saw Chris beginning to stir.

“Good luck,” he muttered sarcastically.

-

That evening, Matthew’s head was pounding as he unlocked the door. The lights in the kitchen seemed blinding, and he fumbled around for the switch. The relative darkness was sweet relief.

“Another migraine?” his wife, Natalie, asked in a whisper.

“Yes.”

“I’ll turn off the lights in the bedroom. Do you need a glass of water?”

“Yes.”

He hobbled to the bedroom, downed a couple of pills, finished the glass of water, and lay down. Sleep eluded him for what felt like an age, and when he finally did come, it was a fitful slumber. Memories meshed with nightmares as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The next morning, he felt groggy, but no longer crippled by the headache. In the soft light of the early morning, he rolled over and wrapped his arms around Natalie.

“Feeling better?” she asked, still clearly half asleep.

“So far, yeah.”

“Rough day at work yesterday?”

“More of the same. Four inmates in the morning, lunch with Hunter, four more in the afternoon. All of mine passed yesterday, so it’s not like it was even a bad day.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond, and Matthew thought she’d fallen back asleep.

“Honey, you need a new job. This one is killing you.”

Matthew sighed heavily, then rolled away from her. This again? Did she really have to start every weekend with this same tired old argument?

“You know I’m right. You haven’t been yourself in months, and these headaches only started after you started this job. You tell me every day that every day is normal, but our new normal here at home is you being pissed off and me tiptoeing around you.”

“Will you get off my back? You stay here with the kids three days a week, and I know that’s hard and tiring in its own way, but what I see at work…” He paused, then changed direction. “I do this for you guys. You forget about that every time you nag me to get a new job. I do this so that you can be home with them as much as you want, or at least as much as we can manage.”

“They need their father, Matthew! Right now, they hardly ever see you, and when they do, it’s like you’re not even there. I would rather you work a lower-paying, less stressful job than keep this salary and lose you emotionally. You know I can pick up more hours at McNeill if I need to, so stop using finances as an excuse.”

“Can we do this another time? It’s Saturday. I want to forget about work for a little bit. We can talk more on Monday.”

“Come Monday you won’t be able to talk. The weekend is our only respite… probably because you don’t go into that hellhole for 48 hours.”

“Whatever, Natalie. We’ll talk about this later.”

He stood up, walked out of the bedroom, and went to pour himself a cup of coffee before the kids got up.

-

“First round’s on me tonight!”

Matthew and Hunter gave a half-hearted cheer along with a few other coworkers - their boss was attempting some “team building” by organizing a company happy hour on the first Friday of every month. Neither Matthew nor Hunter was too thrilled - they didn’t really like the rest of their coworkers - but the boss always paid for the first drink, and it meant skipping missing bedtime at home, so they faithfully showed up month after month. This time, they were seated at the end of the bar, away from the crowd.

“Natalie won’t stop hounding me about getting a new job,” Matthew began, his voice tired and irritated. He added with a wry grin, “Doesn’t she know I’ve gotta stick around for the free drinks?”

“Man, Alyssa’s the same way. She refuses to get a job herself, but keeps telling me this one ain’t good for me. ‘It pays the bills,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t much matter if it’s all that great.’ But no, she’s always gotta be sending me job postings with salaries that wouldn’t cover our expenses, talkin’ ‘bout freelancing or this or that so she can still be home with the kids.”

“Yep - and I’m always a little worried to give her too much detail, because I know the more I tell her, the more she’s going to take that as proof that she’s right.” He paused. “I’m sure she’s figured out by now that termination doesn’t mean getting cut from the rehab program… but I’ve never told her because there’s no way she’d let me keep working if she knew…”

“Ain’t that the truth…”

The conversation lulled, and Matthew’s attention drifted to the television, where the local news anchor was obviously - and badly - reading a script off the teleprompter:

“Tonight at ten - Valerie DeLeon, daughter of late MIND co-founder Arthur DeLeon, is speaking out against what she claims are ‘rampant safety violations’ happening within the Institute’s walls. Don’t miss this exclusive interview at ten o’clo-.”

Disgusted, Matthew turned away. Safety violations at the Institute wouldn’t surprise him - after all, he’d seen his fair share of messy accidents with the Institute tech in the prison - but he didn’t want to know any more than he already did.

An hour or two later, weary from the week and the happy hour, Matthew climbed into his car and made his way home.

-

The weekend came and went, and on Monday morning, the entry gate barked its customary greeting as Matthew scanned his key card. Another day in paradise…

As irritated as he’d been with Natalie lately, he had to admit that a growing sense of unease was beginning to haunt him. He should have been in the best shape of his life, but the migraines were crippling, and to make matters worse, most of his team had also developed migraines within weeks of starting the job. He and Natalie were fighting almost nightly, and trying to hide their tension from the kids added another layer of exhaustion. He wasn’t ready to admit that the stress was because of his job, but he was also no longer confident that it wasn’t.

His first two inmates were standard - sedate, suppress, rewrite, run. Check off the box to confirm they’d passed the sim test and get them on their way to freedom. If it could really be called freedom to forget everything you’ve ever known and loved. But hey, at least you weren’t in prison anymore, right?

His third inmate of the day entered the room. “Sir, can you tell me what’s about to happen? I’ve heard a lot of rumors about this place and I’m freaking out.”

Matthew sighed. This conversation was happening at least once a day now. Rumors within the prison had been first, but now he was hearing whispers everywhere. Natalie hadn’t brought it up to him yet, but he’d heard her talking about it on the phone when she thought he wasn’t listening. He’d done his best to ignore them, but…

He realized the inmate was still talking. “I swear I’m innocent. You have to believe me! Whatever you’re going to do to me, I swear I don’t deserve it.”

“Sure, man. Whatever you say.”

After knocking him out, Matthew started up the simulation and waiting for the muscle to come help him. He scanned the the false past that the creative team had written up, as well as the scenario in which the test would occur. History of poverty. Anger management. Simulation: unable to feed family. Matthew checked the man’s name again. Jorge Rodriguez. Wasn’t this the guy who’d sworn his innocence up and down even after his conviction for robbing a bank? The case had interested Matthew because the jury didn’t seem totally convinced - after a week of deliberation, he’d worried they were just ready to get out of the courtroom. He certainly hadn’t been convinced.

Ah, well. That wasn’t his job. His job was pressing the buttons on this computer. Which, after the muscle finally arrived to help him move Jorge into the sim chamber, he did. He ran the sim, mindlessly scrolling through his phone while Jorge Rodriguez was put to the test.

A blaring noise on his computer startled him out of his stupor, and his heart sank. Bright red letters flashed on the screen. Subject Failure. Termination Indicated. Within two minutes, a pair of men in dark coveralls walked in. Moments later, they walked out, dragging a confused and protesting Jorge along with them. Jorge showed no sign of remembering Matthew - a blessing, given where he was headed.

As he waited for his last inmate of the morning shift to arrive, Matthew pulled his phone back out and saw a notification from the local news app.

BREAKING NEWS: New Suspect Discovered in Local Robbery Case

Matthew opened the notification. He generally kept tabs on the ongoing trials, and couldn’t remember any that were…

Jorge Rodriguez was recently sentenced to five years at Scarlet Bay Correctional Facility for his alleged involvement in the armed robbery of First National Bank in June. However, his family has recently called for the trial to be re-opened in light of new and compelling evidence that he may have been falsely convicted.

As Matthew scanned the article, his heart dropped. What had he just done? This man may actually have been innocent, with a family at home desperately praying for his release, and Matthew had just suppressed all memory of them and…

As his train of thought reached its natural conclusion, he raced out of his office and sprinted down the stairs. When he reached the termination floor, he flung open the doors of the stairwell. What he saw stopped him in his tracks: the same two men in dark jumpsuits wheeling a bodybag out on a gurney.

-

Another month, another happy hour, another round of free drinks.

“First round’s on me tonight to celebrate doubling our quota last month! We love to see numbers like this, folks!”

Numbers, of course, referring to the number of rehabilitated vs. terminated inmates.

Terminated, of course, meaning executed.

The men in the dark jumpsuits never came to happy hour.

Matthew and Hunter seated themselves at the bar, in as quiet a corner as they could find. It was busier than normal, and dingier. The air reeked of booze.

“An Old Fashioned. And a Talisker,” Matthew said to the bartender. “Neat.”

“Make that two of each,” said a familiar voice next to him.

“Chris?” Matthew was shocked.

Chris looked around, trying to see who Matthew was addressing. When he realized it was him, he shook his head. “No, man, my name’s Nick. Sorry. I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

The bartender passed them the drinks, and Chris-Nick walked away. Matthew watched him leave, then turned back to Hunter.

“He rehabbed six weeks ago. He was the first to tell me he’d heard rumors about the simulation.”

“I don’t want to talk about work, man. We come here to forget about that house of horrors.”

There was a momentary pause.

“If it’s such a house of horrors, why are we all still working there?”

“Gotta pay the bills, man, we’ve been over this.”

“But at what cost? Do you ever wonder if we’ve taken things too far?”

Hunter paused, glancing over at Chris, who was clearly on a date. The girl was pretty, and they seemed engrossed in conversation. “You sure that’s the same guy? They seem pretty close for only knowing each other a few weeks.”

“I’m sure. He’s got a scar on his right arm. Saw it when I sedated… when we last met. Saw it again tonight.”

“I wish someone would write me a past that included a cute girl like that.”

“No you don’t. You wish someone would get you a job that doesn’t involve murder. And listen to yourself, talking like you’re not already married.”

“Me and Alyssa’s marriage is none of your business.”

“Yeah, just like Jorge’s innocence was none of my business.”

“Are you still on that? You know what, just shove off.”

Hunter huffed, stood up, and walked away. He and Matthew had grown apart. Matthew was grappling with the role he’d played in Jorge’s death, increasingly disgusted with the job and with himself for staying for so long. Hunter, as a result, was becoming increasingly disgusted with Matthew and increasingly irritated by the questions Matthew was asking.

In the silence left in Hunter’s wake, Matthew’s attention was drawn to the television.

“Tonight at ten - Jorge Rodriguez, who was convicted last fall for a bank robbery in June, has been formally acquitted after a friend noticed him in the background of a photograph taken thirty miles from the bank. A new trial is underway, and Rodriguez’s family expects him to be released by the end of the week. Don’t miss this exclusive interview at ten o’clo-.”

Matthew slid a twenty under his half-empty whiskey and didn’t bother to ask for change before making his way to the exit.

-

He burst through the door, noticing with a pang of guilt the way Natalie’s shoulders tensed when he entered. This poor woman. This beautiful, amazing woman. What had he put her through? And for what? He wrapped her in a hug and didn’t let go.

“What’s going on?” She pulled back, her hands on his arms. Her voice was wavering between concern and confusion. “Are… are you okay?”

The words tumbled out of his mouth explosively, like champagne from a bottle. “They killed someone last month, Natalie. He robbed a bank in the simulation, and they took him out of my office, and they killed him. And then five minutes later, a judge reopened the case for which he was convicted, and it looks like they’re going to convict someone else. He really was innocent. He told me - he begged me - and I didn’t listen.” Hearing the words out loud brought home to him the gravity of what he was saying, and his heart pounded in his ears.

Natalie cut him off. “Slow down. What did you just say?”

“I’m saying you were right. You’ve been right. I can’t stay at this job any longer. I… I’m so sorry. For everything.”

She pulled him back in and held him for a long, quiet moment. Then she took out her phone and made a call.

“Hey Mom.” A pause. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just thinking Matthew and I might go for some ice cream - it’s been a while since we’ve had a date night. Could you come sit with the kids? They’re both down for the night.” Another pause. “Cool, see you in a few.”

She offered him a sad smile as she packed her purse.

Half an hour later, cones in hand, the couple walked around their suburban town square, talking in hushed voices. A quiet wind blew through the trees, rustling the remnants of the leaves, and a chill descended rapidly as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“So what’s next?” Natalie asked. She had, as Matthew had guessed, heard the rumors about what was going on at the prison. She was not shocked at his confession of complicity and seemed relieved to be talking about it openly.

“I can’t stay there anymore. I want to give my notice tomorrow and screw the consequences. Do you think the clinic can take you on full-time for now? Do you even want to stay at a McNeill Institute clinic after all of this?”

“It’ll do for now. Until you’re back on your feet. Until we’re all back on our feet.”

Profound relief - and gratitude - washed over Matthew. He felt like he’d been a prisoner himself and had just been offered his freedom.

“I love you so much, Natalie.”

“I love you too.”

-

The following Monday, Matthew drudged back to his office, guilt and shame gnawing at his chest. The white walls, which had once seemed clean and inviting, now felt cold and sterile. They seemed to be closing in on him with every step. He’d intended to storm into the boss’ office, fling his keys and badge on the desk, and storm out. But it hadn’t quite happened like that, and his boss had demanded he work through the end of the day.

“What’s your name?” asked the man standing at a small desktop computer in the corner of the room.

“Aaron,” replied the man in the orange jumper who sat in the orthodontic chair.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Matthew.”

“Look, man, I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve heard about what y’all are doing here. I know they’re disappearing folks, and I know not all of them get new names and new stories. I don’t know how you win a pardon in here, and I don’t know how you lose so bad that they’ll off you, but I’ve got a family back home. My wife and I’ve been married for three years. She was ten weeks pregnant, I wasn’t handling it well, I drank too much and tried to drive home anyway… you know the rest. But my daughter’s six months old now, and I’ve only seen her once. Never held her. I don’t want her to grow up without a daddy. She deserves better. Frankly, she deserves better than me, but I’m the one she’s got. Can you tell me how you can get me out of here alive?”

Matthew weighed the situation in his mind. He’d pulled the files of all his inmates for the day - he couldn’t subject another man to Jorge’s fate - and Aaron’s file looked as clean as they got. The story he gave about his kid checked, as did the charge he was in for: drunk driving and a subsequent car crash. One severe injury, no casualties. No history of alcohol abuse or violence. Seemed like a tragedy that would be further compounded by Aaron’s rehabilitation, let alone termination. Aaron was roughly the same size as he was. What would happen if he…

“Give me your jumpsuit.” Matthew demanded, unzipping his jacket.

“What the -”

“Don’t ask questions. Take my uniform. If you want to get out of here alive, this is the only guarantee I can offer.”

Aaron turned around, trying to maintain some semblance of privacy, and handed Matthew his jumpsuit with his back turned. Matthew, in exchange, handed him the uniform off his own back. As Aaron got dressed again, Matthew crumpled the orange jumpsuit and tossed it in the corner, remaining in just his boxers and undershirt.

“Leave the badge and keys. Keep the jacket folded over your arm and make sure the name isn’t visible. There’s an employee exit just past the cafeteria. Make eye contact if you pass someone - don’t be weird - but don’t say a word to anyone. Leave the jacket at the fence and take the bus as far away as you can. Lay low for now, and then I want to see you at City Park a week from today. Four o’clock. Don’t make me regret this, man. If you so much as touch a drop of alcohol, I’ll turn you back in.”

Aaron was clearly shaken but muttered a hasty agreement and a flustered thanks.

“Now punch me.”

“What?”

“Punch me. In the face. Hurry - we don’t have much time. I’m going to tell them we got in a fight and I need a black eye to pull it off.”

Aaron hesitated.

“Look, today’s my last day. The worst they can do is fire me.” Both men knew this was a false statement. “Do you want to hold your daughter or not?”

Aaron punched him. Hard. He collapsed, and stars danced in his vision as he watched Aaron open the door, tentatively look down the hall, and dart out.

“Good luck,” he whispered.

-

Light danced on the table as the warm smell of coffee drifted to the farthest corners of the coffee shop. Matthew sat alone, cradling a latte in a mug that was more bowl than cup. He willed himself to be calm, to focus on his breathing. Six months had passed since he’d left the prison, but his body was still on high-alert almost constantly.

A woman walked over to his table. “Matthew Bailey?”

“That’s me.”

She sat down across from him. “I’m Leah. Thank you for meeting me, Matthew. I know this is just as risky for you as it is for me.” He noticed her absentmindedly fiddling with a ring on her left hand. An engagement ring, maybe?

“No, thank you, Leah. I’m glad someone is trying to get the word out.” He paused for a moment. “But maybe don’t mention my name. I don’t want to get hurt. I couldn’t do that to Natalie… not again.”

“Of course. I understand.” She paused to take a sip of her coffee. “So, tell me everything you know about what’s going on in the prison.”

“How much time do you have?”

She made a show of pretending to glance at her watch. “All day.”

---

Please let me know what you think! I tried to take into consideration the feedback offered for the first two challenges - constructing effective tension and giving insight into the main character’s mind - as well as implementing some concepts I liked from other competitor’s previous entries, particularly the mirror/parallel effect from The Secret Weapon by

Cork Hutson

:

The Secret Weapon

I also play around in this story with scenes and transitions, rather than a single-scene, seamless narrative. I’d love to know if you thought this was effective, or if you have any other suggestions for how to make this a more compelling narrative. This story took a lot of thought and planning, but didn’t come together in a linear fashion at all, so I’m curious to see what you think about the final product.

No matter how this turns out, it’s been an absolute joy to dip my toes back into writing fiction and a pleasure to read the stories from the other competitors. I’ve grown as a writer and a story-constructor through this process, and I look forward to continuing this momentum with future short stories and (hopefully soon!) a serialized rewrite of my 2013 novel. Thank you for showing up and taking the time to read, and I hope you’ll stick around.