Chapter Three: Almost alive
965 Words
Freedom doesn’t arrive all at once.
It leaks in.
The first week out of prison, I wake up every morning before the sun, heart racing, convinced I’m late for count. It takes a few seconds for the room to settle into something real—walls without scratches, a ceiling that doesn’t hum, silence that belongs to me.
Amber sleeps beside me, calm and steady, like she’s anchoring the world just by breathing.
I don’t waste time pretending I deserve rest.
I busted my ass to get a job but I ended up getting two jobs.
At night, I work the graveyard shift at a gas station just off the highway. Fluorescent lights. Burnt coffee. People who don’t want conversation but somehow give it anyway. Truckers. Drunks. Lost souls staring at lottery tickets like prayer slips.
During the day, I cut hair.
Nothing fancy. Clippers. Scissors. A chair that squeaks when people lean back. Word spreads fast when you don’t ask questions and don’t judge. People trust quiet hands.
It’s exhausting.
But it’s honest.
And honestly, being tired lets you sleep.
Amber and I built something small and careful.
Morning coffee before our shifts. Texts that don’t need punctuation. Late-night dinners eaten half-asleep on the couch, her legs tucked under mine. Sometimes we don’t talk at all, and it still feels like the best part of the day.
It’s peaceful.
So peaceful that I stop waiting for it to end.
That’s when she walks into the barbershop.
She’s young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. A hoodie that was too big for her frame. Eyes sharp in a way that doesn’t match the rest of her.
“You James?” she asks.
I nod. “You got an appointment?”
She hesitates, like she’s deciding how honest to be. “My uncle said you could fit me in.”
That should’ve been my first warning.
I tell her to sit.
She came back the next week.
Then again the week after that.
Always during business hours. Always polite. Always normal.
She talks while I work. About school. About hating teachers. About feeling stuck somewhere she didn’t choose. Nothing illegal. Nothing dangerous.
But something feels rehearsed.
Like she’s testing which answers make me relax.
I keep everything professional. I don’t offer advice. I don’t cross lines. I don’t even touch her shoulder when she flinches at the clippers.
Still—she lingers after the cut.
Asking questions that feel too personal for someone who barely knows me.
“How long were you inside?”
“Do you ever feel like people expect you to mess up?”
“Do you think people really change?”
I give neutral answers.
I should’ve stopped seeing her.
I didn’t.
Because nothing was technically wrong.
Because I wanted to believe that mattered.
The night Amber appears on the news, I’m halfway through tying my boots.
The TV is just noise until her face fills the screen.
“…former corrections officer Amber—”
My hands stop moving.
The anchor’s voice is calm. Practiced. Merciless.
“…terminated following an internal investigation…”
They don’t charge her with anything. They don’t have to. They say words like misconduct and conflict of interest and breach of trust. They say her name over and over until it doesn’t sound like hers anymore.
She was important. Respected. Loved.
Now she’s a warning.
My phone lights up with messages. Some are supportive. Some are cruel. Some are asking questions I don’t know how to answer.
Amber sinks onto the couch when it’s over. Her face doesn’t change. Her hands do. They shake like they’ve been holding something too heavy for too long.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she says.
“I know,” I tell her.
But the city doesn’t care.
Two days later, the guard called me.
The uncle.
He sounds sympathetic. Regretful. Says he tried to protect Amber. Says things got twisted. Maybe he can help clean it up if I just explain a few things.
Against every instinct I have, I agree to meet him.
That’s how traps work.
The questions come fast.
Why was I seeing his niece so often?
Why didn’t I report the contact?
Did I encourage her to skip school?
Did I ever drink around her?
I say no. Over and over.
He nods like he believes me.
Then the sirens arrive.
Hands grab my arms. Harder than necessary.
“You’re being detained pending review,” someone says. “Release violation.”
“This is a mistake,” I say. “I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s not how this works,” the officer replies.
They list it calmly, like reading ingredients:
Unauthorized contact with a minor.
Failure to report repeated interaction.
Contributing to delinquency.
I look at the niece standing across the street.
She won’t meet my eyes.
As they walk me toward the prison doors, the world starts to feel wrong—not scary, not blurry—thin. Like someone peeled a layer off reality and forgot to smooth it back down.
Amber is there.
She looks smaller than I’ve ever seen her.
I try to say her name.
The doors open.
White.
Not light—absence.
No sound. No floor. Nobody.
Just erase.
Then—
“James?”
Air slams into my lungs.
My eyes snap open to a hospital ceiling. Machines hum softly around me, steady and patient, like they’ve been waiting.
A doctor leans over me, disbelief written all over his face.
“You’re awake,” he says. “After eight months… you’re awake.”
Eight months.
The prison doesn’t disappear.
I'm trapped in a prison in my mind. s**t happened in my head for Eight months.
I wake up just to realize it was just a lie. I guess that's what a coma does.
- Writer
