I leaned on the cell doors overlooking the cell block and stared at the cell in the left corner of the bottom floor, farthest from the guard door, where a monster waited—a man of evil intent. The albino man held back for a week because of the lockdown, but I knew today was the day. I heard the whispers among the guards and the subtle stares from prisoners across the cell block. They wouldn’t tell me, but it had to be true.
This morning had been too strange. The usual shouts for the cells to be opened were strangely nonexistent, the guards walked around like they were stepping on eggshells instead of their usual cockiness, and the blistering summer heat had cooled. Today was the day. The cell block was designed in a rectangle with three floors and a large opening in the middle. The metal walkway outside my door had two stairs on both ends that led directly to the bottom.
My cell was on the third floor. Just one floor split me from the man below. I had heard rumors of an albino man floating around the jail months back, but I had no faith in them. I wasn’t one to judge on appearances. In my 28 years, I had met handsome brutes and deformed do-gooders. Still, I should've paid more attention to the stories they told. The other prisoners spoke about him like a father explaining the boogeyman to his kids before bed. They would say things like, ‘The albino man strangled two men in cell block B while in the shower, or ‘The albino man’s eyes glow red in the dark.’
I had always thought if those stories were true, then the guards would’ve stepped in, but it seemed they feared him too. Their fear made me worry, and it created an atmosphere of misery. I had a feeling today would be the day for a while now. Throughout the night, for the past couple of days, I would awake with a slight tremor in my hands that I hadn’t felt since I was a child waiting for my father to come home.
I glanced toward the guard room through the glass and saw a group clustered near the control panel for the cells. I stepped away from the bars as my hands trembled slightly and sat down on the cot. The room, as tiny as it was, almost felt like home these past months. It had a small bed to lay my head on, a desk to read books, and a toilet to unload. In many ways, I was happy to have so little. Prison had given me the time to decompress from the life of debauchery I had been living. There were no stakes or games to win. I had to live, but I couldn’t even do that properly. Now the stakes had grown deadly.
A soft buzzing sound resounded, and the doors slid open. I didn’t move. I watched prisoners stream out of their cells and head for the stairs. A couple of them sneaked glances at me, but they quickly left as if spooked to see me still sitting there. I saw a few familiar faces like Paul Augusta, a chip smuggler from mars, and Raymond Larkin, who we called rain man. We had grown close these past couple of months. They had been here longer than me and had shown me the ropes. They showed me what guards to grease to sneak stuff in, the proper sauce to make the food taste better, and who not to mess with. I had taught them chess and riddles and other nonsensical things to pass the time. We laughed about life outside and blamed others for our mistakes. Yet the looks on their faces were distant, as if I were unrecognizable. I wish they had given me a glimpse of pity instead. I did not want anyone's sympathy, but it sure beats apathy. A dead man walking, that's what I am.
“Are you Wesley Howard?” A skinny boy with blonde hair and green eyes stood in front of the cell. Somebody had severely cut his lips, and he had purple bruises on his arms and neck. We had been in lockdown, and his bruises looked days old. I nodded to him and clenched my hands.
“Boss says he wants to speak to you about payment. Come on out.”
I slowly pushed myself up and glanced at the unmailed letters on my desk. No one writes letters nowadays except my daughter Angela. She learned about them in history class. People on earth used to send physical paper to each other to communicate long distances. It seemed wasteful to me, but she enjoyed it. She would write to me and tell me everything she had learned and everything my wife was angry at her for. I had grown fond of them. It had a different feel than seeing her over a holo-tube. When I read her words, I almost felt like I could see an image of her talking in her pleasant mannerisms. I wish I had sent my replies to them. I hoped they'd mail them out if I didn’t make it.
“Hurry up. He’s a stickler for punctuality.”
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The sounds of my heart beating drowned out the boy’s voice. His lips moved, but the sound didn’t make it to me. The boy motioned me forward. I exited my cell and looked down to the bottom floor, and there the monstrous man stood, just as the stories described. His skin was a milky white like the bust of a Greek statue, with piercing crimson eyes. A muscular frame popped out of the tank top, which was unsettling to see on a tall man. His muscles were quite veiny, running through his arms and head. I doubt that he planned to live a long life. His lips and veins were also an odd shade of blue.
A small group of prisoners stood around him, but he towered over them. He was hairless, too, from his head down. He looked inhuman. I had seen the work of the sculptors before in casinos among the rich, but never on a man so tall. He must’ve paid the sculptors millions in universal credit to design a body so perfect.
I looked toward the guard room, and it was vacated except for coffee cups and a small freezer that hung ajar. The entire cell block emptied, leaving only me, the albino man, and a few others behind him.
The albino man locked eyes with me as he followed my descent to the bottom floor. I stopped trembling, and my heartbeat slowed to an even thump. I’m like any high-performing athlete; when it’s time to play the game, the jitters wash away—the years of training in game rooms and on tabletops kicked in.
When I was still a chess grandmaster, my trainer Hugo told me a story of when he grew up as a young man in the asteroid belt working the mines. He wanted to be a pilot and explore the stars like the first explorers of old. Everyone on the station knew Hugo was a genius, but he was timid as a young man. The man in charge of the mine exploited that. He got severely hurt training to become a pilot while in zero gravity. It was a freak accident, but the fear kept him from progressing in training. The mine overseer saw that as an opportunity and coaxed him to stay. He waited an extra seven years supervising menial labor when he should’ve been long gone. He ended up a no-name pilot when he could’ve been one of the youngest to get his license. He told me, ‘If you allow your fears to fester, you’ll be ill-prepared for when the opportune moment reaches you.’
He is, no, had been a father figure to me, and more often than not, he was right. The fear I had felt bubbling up simmered down, and in its place, blind confidence took over. Gambling had gotten me here in the first place, and when the stakes were this high, I couldn’t help but envision victory. I got to the bottom and sized him up the best I could. I wouldn’t look away like his eyes dared me to.
The albino man reached into the back pocket of his standard-issued light blue pants and pulled out a small piece of paper the size of an index card. His face was confused as he inspected the card under the fluorescent ceiling tiles. The skinny boy went to stand close behind him. His hand held the back of the albino man’s pants as he peeked from behind like a lion cub hiding behind its father.
“This is certainly you.” The albino man said as he flipped around the sheet and showed me a picture of myself from when I beat the mars’ chess champion in a classic game. I wore my tuxedo tights with my innocent smile beaming toward a camera. My hair was short then, and I had no beard except the stubble from a lousy shave job that morning. My skin was a dark brown, slightly darker than usual due to my time on earth a week before. I used that picture whenever someone asked for a professional headshot. I don’t think I’ll ever look as good as I looked then.
“This is you. Wesley Howard’s your name, is it not?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Did you know that the birds sing songs about Wesley Howard? Did you know that? A bird's lyrics are always out of order, so most people grow bored with their tunes, but not me. I press my ears up real close to the bars outside in the early mornings to hear their voices. It's up to me to interpret their words, so they don’t fall on deaf ears. What do you think they sing to me about when they mention you?”
“I would hope for pleasant things about my kind nature, a dazzling smile, and overall good looks, but birds have been known to shit on me from time to time, so maybe not,” I replied.
The albino man laughed a hearty laugh that I found unsettling for a man of his stature. The small group around us and the skinny blonde boy joined in. The boy snatched the picture out of the albino man’s hand like a curious child. The albino man spun around quickly and slapped the young boy, and he was sent flying out of the circle. The boy didn’t scream out, and no blood stained the floor. He just lay limp. The albino man’s face suddenly turned serious, and he said, “No, that's not what their songs say. They tell me your wicked ways have led you here, and as your savior, it’s my job to steer you away from the clutches of evil. Gambling and not paying your debts are two grave sins. I must warn you, or you’ll forever be shrouded in darkness.”
I stepped back quickly, and two men from the group jumped to grab me from behind. I elbowed one hard in the stomach, but another immediately took his place.
“Don’t do this. I'm still gathering the money,” I screamed out.
“I mean you no ill- intent, but if my hand is light in punishment, how will I be able to steer you away from wrongdoing? I won’t kill you, but I need to do my duty, or how could I call myself a true believer.”
I thrashed with all my might. The last thing I saw was a giant milky white fist hurtling toward my face.