Life Sentence

𝟹/𝟷𝟽/𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟶

My cravings for Cheetos landed me in jail.

My habit of avoiding people was my downfall.

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time made it completely legal for the cops to stuff me in this dim, grimy cell forever.

I hate my life.

*

Let me illustrate some before-and-afters. 

Before The Incident, going to the grocery store was another boring task. I didn’t like it much.

After The Incident, grocery stories are dreaded places. For me, SayedStore is the equivalent of breaking a mirror, as I walk under a ladder, with black cats criss-crossing under it. 

Before, well, everybody has a saying they despise. I’ve always disliked “The world isn’t fair”. I mean, yes, it isn’t fair, but people say it like that’s okay. When in reality, we should be trying to make everything equal. 

Now, I straight up loathe the phrase. I wanted a snack and I wound up in a place where I get no snacks at all. Does that scream fair to you?   

Previously, I was Zane Khatri, the eighteen-year-old boy who was enjoying his summer vacation before going off to college.

In the present, I’m Zane Khatri, a infamous teenage criminal who’s sentenced to life in jail. 

And, of course, before this mess, I lived with my parents, soon to be housing in a dorm.

Now, home sweet home is a prison cell.

𝟽/𝟸𝟿/𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟿

I had less than a month before college starts, and I wanted to make the most of it. So far, that plan had been working excellently—I’d been in the house all summer, shielded from the cruel sun’s rays and heat, and safe from annoying people’s chatter.

But alas, I couldn’t hide from the outside world forever. My parents told me I was acting like a sack of potatoes, lying on the couch playing video games all day.

They said if I wanted a snack, I had to go to the grocery store myself.

And, alas, my hunger overrode my dislike of going out in public when I didn’t need to.

I threw on some black clothes, because black is my favorite color. Clothes-wise, black is also the comfiest color—it just is.

Dark hoodie, even darker sweatpants, sneakers, and sunglasses. I was all ready to go.

I walked to the bathroom to, well, go. While there, I washed my face with warm water. My light olive skin shone as the water dripped off. I had shaggy black hair, amber eyes, and a mouth that counted smiling as exercise.

“Bye, Mom!” I hollered, slamming the door behind me.

I surveyed my block. Even in the July heat, people were outside jogging, walking dogs, or plain old going on a stroll.

I moaned. I didn’t enjoy people—they're so loud and annoying and loud. My doggy, Balto, was my friends, best friends, casual acquaintances, and anyone else in my life.

Just in case I ran across someone I knew, I slid on my sunglasses and pulled up my hood. If anybody asked, my name was Kane Zhatri (smooth, I know) and I was visiting my cousin, Bob.

Time to grab some Cheetos.

𝟹/𝟷𝟽/𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟶

My bad luck started before The Incident, before I was double digits, before I was born. It traced back to the start of the males in my family’s bad luck, when my grandfather stepped in a puddle of toddler pee, slipped, and broke his back.

Then my father accidentally started a fire in our house. But it was more than that. It was a string of bad luck, each unleashing the other that cursed dominoes. My dad’s cat happened to walk into the kitchen. My dad happened to be holding a cucumber. The cat happened to see it, thought, my nemesis! Captured, at last! and pounced on it. Dad jumped back, and the cuce dropped. The cat was startled and tripped my father, and he happened to jump onto the stove. Then the cat happened to fling the cucumber up so it turned on the stove. My dad’s pants caught fire, so he whipped the, off and coincidentally passed the flames to the kitchen towel.

And now me. I’m an eighteen-year-old who was sent to jail over half a year ago. Sent to jail for life.

This prison is what happens when you get ‘sucky’ and ‘sewage’ and blend them. It’s suckage, really. A line of five-by-five cells with bars in the front, so we can see another line opposite from our own.

Each stall has a three-legged stool. We get toilet breaks twice a day and get to go to the gym triweekly. Sometimes, a guard will bring in those tiny screens that show one video—$1 at Walmart. The videos always show scenes of Law & Order TV.

“New videos,” somebody murmurs. Footsteps start clicking against the tile floors. The kind of sound guard’s shoes make—probably one coming to deliver another show.

Hey, it’s Jimi! Jimi’s one of my favorite guards because he hardly talks, but when he does, he has a deep, smooth voice. Jimmy’s my age, actually—it's so wicked unfair that he has a life, an apartment, a girlfriend…and I have nothing.

All because of that blasted grocery store trip.

𝟽/𝟸𝟿/𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟿

“Thanks for coming to SayedStore,” the worker said in her sweet voice. The dark-haired lady handed me my bag, filled to the brim with snacks. Although her smile looked genuine, the lady said the parting words like the automated female voice on the Metro—no emotion, having said it thousands of times (although the Metro woman was a robot, I was sure, so she actually couldn’t have feelings).

I politely took the bag and quickly left the store. It was getting darker outside, but there were still loads of people. Hood up, glasses on, bag thrown over my shoulder; I hoped nobody bothered me.

I wanted to use the alley between SayedStore and Pompeya’s Pottery as my path home, because nobody would run into me there, but the last time I tried it, I got yelled at by an employee of the pottery shop who saw me through a camera.

My eyes scanned my surroundings. The spy cam outside Pompeya’s Pottery is the kind that swivels. I would just have to wait a moment.

A second later, the cam is facing the other way, so I darted down the alleyway.

The problem was, I had an extra ten pounds of snacks sling over my shoulder, plus a lot of heavy black clothes. And I’m not that fast anyways.

I cursed as I hid in the alleyway. I was almost certain Pomepeya would come out with a broom and tell me to scat out of the alley.

Which I didn’t even understand.

I heard a door creak open, probably the one in the back of the pottery shop, and I cursed even more as I jumped into a nearby dumpster. I did not want to have to walk home on the street, with tons of people.

But it wasn’t Pompeya that came out of the pottery shop.

Instead, it was two men scrambling out of the SayedStore.

They had black jumpsuits, and dark ski masks on. Both had brown hair and glinting blue eyes, but one was fat and the other skinny. They cackled with glee as they raced away.

I could smell something fishy from a mile away, and I wasn’t talking about tuna. Something was wrong here. But what?

I ducked back into the dumpster to think about what I had just witnessed, but I had my answer not a minute after the spectacle.

With a deafening BOOM!, the SayedStore exploded. 

𝟹/𝟷𝟽/𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟶

“Hey, Jimi,” I say wearily as the guard walks up to my bars.

He slides the printed video into my cell. “You have a couple minutes to watch that before Rachel”—he nods his head to the cell next to mine—“gets it.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, snatching the thin screen from the floor. I study the front screen: ʟᴏɴɢ-ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴜɴᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟs ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ɴᴇᴡ ʀᴇᴄʀᴜɪᴛs. Sounds interesting enough.

Jimi gives a grim wave and start to walk off, but I say, “Wait! Jim, before you leave, tell me a joke.” My friend/guard has a good sense of humor if you just ask him.

Jimi stops and says, “My girlfriend—you know, Maya?—and I often laugh about how competitive we are.” I nod and he delivers the punchline: “But I always laugh harder.” 

I crack a smile. “Nice.”

Jimi salutes me and walks off, so I click the video and watch my only bit of entertainment for the day.   

*

The video matched its title perfectly.

Two people in their mid-30s, accused of murders, robberies, blowing up buildings, as well as several small offenses, should’ve been in jail for life. Instead, they’ve been committing crimes for the past year.

Footage from a different jail shows they broke into the cell of a renowned criminal, and tried to talk him into joining them. When big names join the already-famous Broke Brothers (that’s what their called, and it used to be accurate, but after so many robberies, the well-known criminals are rich), it’s good for them.

The woman refused, so they left. They knew they were being filmed, so they vowed next time to bring a gun so they’d guaranteed get their allies.

As soon as I had finished watching the clips and reading the captions in the video, a BEOW!-BEOW!-BEOW! hammered into my ears.

I whipped my head up from the screen. The alarms were flashing red, emitting the sound that has only sliced through the air once in the time I’ve been at jail.

There’s an alert.

Guards race down the hallways to assist whatever the problem is, and metal blinds lower over every cell’s bars, shutting off all light except for the small lamps in our cells.

I’m alone in my cell, in this loud room.

But I’m actually not.

THUD.

CRACK.

“Boo-ya!”

I stare behind me, at a giant gap in the back of my cell’s wall. Light streams in from the outside, partially blocked by the figures of two black-clad men.

Their faces are covered by ski masks, but I recognize them.

I recognize them from the SayedStore all those months ago.

I also recognized them from something much, much more recently. 

“You,” I whisper, my voice raspy.

“Us,” they agree in unison.

The fat one pulls out a gun and points in at me as the two walk into my cell and plop down on the floor. “We only have a couple minutes,” he says, “and you know what we’re here for, don’t you?”

My throat feels dry but I still say, “Yes.”

I sit down to have a chat with the Broke Brothers. 

𝟽/𝟸𝟿/𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟿

Bombs.

That was what ran through my mind as I laid in the dumpster.

There were bombs.

My crumpled body could barely move, and my mind felt sluggish. My head hurt, too.

SayedStore was blown up, but I was alive, somehow. The dumpster walls had given me a little cover.

I sighed with relief as I repeated the thought:

I’m alive.

I heard police sirens in the distance as the throbbing in my head increased, and I drifted off into unconsciousness.

*

I awoke in a dim, cube-shaped room. Everything was gray—the walls, the ceiling, the floor, my clothes, the desk in the middle of the police officer and I….

The police officer?!

I tried to rub my eyes but found my hands were shackled.

“Whuh…what’s happening?” I said weakly, staring at the officer. Navy suit, badges, and cap. Dark-skinned and wearing a frown.

“You blew up a building,” he said.

I cringed. “No, no I—”

“We saw,” he said firmly. “There were cameras. A black-clad figure in the store, planting the bomb. Then you, walking out of the store in black clothes, looking around, and creeping into the alleyway.”

“I can explai—”

“YOU CAN’T EXPLAIN!” The officer roared. Then he continued in a hushed voice: “Dozens died. Dozens more were injured. All the evidence points to you.” 

My head was spinning. It was true. All the evidence did point to me. I didn’t do it, but the officer—the world didn’t know that.

“Seriously, I can explain,” I whispered.

The police officer frowned. “You’ll get a chance to. At your trial. And if you’re found guilty? Well, you’ll be rewarded with life in jail.”

𝟹/𝟷𝟽/𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟶

“Why me?” 

Those words wrestle control of my mouth, popping out first instead of the dozens of other questions I have once the Broke Brother finish explaining.

“Why me?” I repeat. 

The men share a look. “What?” Blake, the skinny brother, says.

“You could’ve chosen anyone,” I say, “any criminal at all. Some people are much older than me, and have done loads of awful things. Why me?”

“You blew up a building,” Bryson, the fat one, says.

“You’re famous for that,” Blake adds.

“In fact, your young age is even more remarkable,” Bryson says.

I shook my head. “But I didn’t even do that. You guys did it, and I got blamed. Which is why I’m in this frickin’ cell. So why me?”

“As you just said, public thinks you blew up the building,” Blake says. “We did it, but the name ‘Zane Khatri’ is linked to that explosion.”

“When you join us,” Bryson says, “your name will add to the fear the Broke Brothers already represents. It’ll be awesome.”

“‘When’?” I say.

The brothers share another look. “Yes…?” Blake says.

I tut-tut-tut at them. “You mean if.”

“No,” Bryson snarls, his fingers reaching for the gun by his side. “When. It’s going to happen. We have a gun.”

“So?” I shrug. “I’m not joining you.”

Blake smiles coldly as Bryson points the weapon at me once again. “Okay, then. In that case, you’ll pay the price for refusing our offer.”

I just smiled, too.

I had a gun pointed at my face….

But….

𝟽/𝟸𝟿/𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟿

I had bad luck.

Naturally, I lost the court case.

I explained the reasons why all the evidence looked like I exploded the SayedStore. I wanted Cheetos. I hated people. End of story.

But they chose to believe their eyes and not my words.

I pleaded innocent. Which was the whole reason the trial happened, but I pleaded innocent there, too. I said what happened. I said I was telling the truth. My mother insisted I was innocent, saying I was at SayedStore for snacks. Nope.

The officers even showed me the footage and, just my luck, only one of the Broke Brothers were caught onscreen—and just a sliver of him. Enough to show the color of his clothes, but not the clothes he was wearing.

Life in prison.

Such a nice thing for an eighteen-year-old to have.  

Because of the explosion, I became one of the most famous teenagers of the decade. I was Zane Khatri, the crazy criminal.

I always wanted to be famous.

But not the kind of famous where I have to meet fans.

The kind of famous where people’s minds flash to me often, but I don’t have to interact with anybody.

I guess I got my wish.

Famous, in jail.

Delightful.

𝟹/𝟷𝟽/𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟶

….I know something the Broke Brothers don’t.

Right before Bryson shoots, both brothers are tackled from behind. They fall to the ground with a thud, moaning.

Jimi and a couple other guards proudly stand in the hole to my cell. The other guards rush to shackle the Broke Brothers, but Jimi walks up to me.

“You saw, right?” I say.

Jimi grins. “Yeah, buddy.”

Because here’s the thing—there are security cameras in each cell. Which a couple guards always watch during lockdowns.

So I was saved….

And the secret is out.

I didn’t set up the bombs.

The Broke Brothers did.

*

I stare up at the judge, the same one who judged at my first trial. With all the ‘new evidence’, they called another trial—and the judge is about to announce it.

Everyone gazes at the plump man. The room is tenser than the Olympics, as everyone radiates worries, wondering what my sentence will be.

Finally, the judge booms, “INNOCENT!”

Cries of joy echo in the court. From my family, from my bro Jimi, and loudest of all, from me.

My mouth muscles are sore as I stretch my smile to its capacity—I didn’t grin much in jail or normal life. I dash over to my mother, who didn’t give up on me whole time I was in prison, and try to hug her.

My bound arms didn’t get far with the gesture of embrace.

“Can you….” I start to the officers present, but Jimi is already on it. He lifts the copper key to my handcuffs I had to wear at the trial, and inserts the shining key into the hole. 

With a click, the cuffs that have bound my life for months fall to the floor.