Beefy. That’s how his brother would have described the knife. Rubin thought about the word for a moment. It was an insulting one to say the least. Even for an inanimate object. But then again, Nigel Davore was a tactless idiot. Offending someone, or in this case, something, would have never crossed his brother’s mind. Such is characteristic that has a knack for creating situations that had no business unfolding. Like the time Nigel had told a woman her hair was thinning in an unattractive way. A harsh, but a truth nonetheless. Rubin would never believe his brother meant any harm in the blunt statement. Or any of his others. Even when it was Rubin that had dealt with the woman’s furious husband. He had never replaced the tooth he had lost in the scuffle, nor had his nose ever been set straight. Its crooked appearance reminded him of his brother’s idiocy every time he looked in the mirror or saw himself in a picture. Still, dealing with Nigel’s lack of tact was something he’d be willing to do if it meant getting him.

Rubin transferred the weapon from one hand to the other. His father had crafted the strangely serrated knife years before. Its unusual weight was undeniable but indescribable. Whether that was a good thing or not he did not know, but the knife certainly didn’t meet his mother’s harsh judgment. It never had. It never would. Her hatred of anything below her standards had rubbed him the wrong way more than enough times for the imperfect knife to have wiggled into the single soft spot in his frigid heart. Tucked nice and tight beside his family. The knife was something of a security blanket for him now; his last link to a man he had loved dearly but was too foolish to tell. Not as an adult anyway and only as a child on rare occasions.

He glanced at the small, misshapen rectangle of light that hit the northern wall of his cell directly over the stone table he sat at each day. Twelve of the two hundred forty-two tally marks crudely etched in the stone wall stared back at him boldly. The others lurked in the shadows like eavesdropping onlookers, too scared to show themselves fully, but too interested in the chaos ensuing within his cage to run and hide completely. He called the twelve illuminated marks his gods. At night he would laugh at just how implausible it could be that twelve tally marks could be gods. But during the day, when boredom and solitude owned every second of his life, the marks were a pantheon of deities watching his every movement, each of his choices. Day and night. All day, every day, all night, every night. That, or they were his conscience making sure he didn’t do anything else he’d regret. Whatever they were, he needed them. He prayed to them. He loved them.

He rubbed the back of his neck mindlessly and stared at the knife now laying on the stone table. So many memories tied to a single entity. Bad memories. Nightmarish memories, really. He slid the knife toward the wall across the table. It rested beneath his gods. To an onlooker it may look like an item of sacrificial worship. But to Rubin, it was a silent plea for his past to be erased by a higher power. Suddenly, he snatched the knife back into his hand, scolding himself harshly for having the audacity to ask for forgiveness.

A bead of sweat fell from his brow and landed on the back of his hand. He squeezed the handle of the knife tighter. Hefty. Hefty was a better word. That’s how his father would have described the knife. In fact, he may have. A single word uttered or mumbled in one of the rare times he spoke. His father was a wordsmith of a particular kind. Certainly not the kind that used an unnecessary number of flowery words to describe anything and everything. No, Harold Davore was the kind of man that used as few words as possible to convey as much information as necessary. It took Rubin quite some time to understand his father’s form of communication. One word answers can be devastating to a young boy who has run a mile through the fields with news he was proud to tell his father of. But when he finally learned to decipher the short, encrypted codes, he often realized just how proud his father was of his accomplishments. Truth be told, it was the rare occasions when his father felt it necessary to use more words than usual to make a point that Rubin eventually began to dread. Of course, clueless Nigel often devalued those moments down to nothing more than a shrug of his shoulders, a screwed up face, and a careless comment about their father’s mood that day. Yes, Nigel was an acquired taste. One Rubin had had to sip on several times before he could stop making terrible faces.

It was then that it occurred to Rubin that he had no idea if either man was still alive. He assumed they were dead. The last he saw of them, they certainly appeared as dead as dead could be, but he had not stuck around very long after the incident. Sadly, that was just how he was. How he had always been. He preferred to run from his mistakes. To do anything in his power to avoid being held accountable. He shuddered at the thought that he could now be so far removed from a life he once cherished so dearly. The only thing he had left of anyone in his family were memories. Even then, those memories were anything but enjoyable. More like torture, really. One he deserved but certainly didn’t enjoy.

Suddenly, a previously unnoticed tapping sound filled the damp space around him. It was the kind of noise that sounds like it is full of bad intentions. Intentions created by frustration and anger. Bad memories in this case. Its intensity grew with each knock of the blade against the stone slab. Rubin grabbed his wrist with his own hand and squeezed gently. His efforts to soothe the tense muscles were futile. They continued on, conducting their furious melody until he slammed the hefty knife down on the tabletop and buried his face in his palms. What have I done?

“Why stop?” A man’s voice came through the bars of Rubin’s cell. He breathed a nasally chuckle. His presence seemed to have negated even more of the light that typically illuminated at least a portion of the corridor. “If only you had the ability to stop things before they escalated too far back then.” The figure outside the cell was tall, abnormally so. His head nearly touched the ceiling of the corridor. His shoulders were clearly broad but distinctly undefined in the darkness he stood within.

Rubin refused to respond or react in any way.

“Truly though. It was lovely. You’re quite talented, I must admit. If I didn’t know better I would think you had a background in the arts.” A masterful proficiency in subtly masked every bit of sarcasm Rubin knew was in the comment. It didn’t matter though. Rubin’s mind had drifted away from the visitor, choosing instead to think about his brother and his love of art. An image of Nigel lying on the floor of his bedroom drawing his endless pictures appeared in his mind.

“They told me you aren’t much of a talker but Christ, a simple acknowledgment of my presence would be appreciated. Well deserved, I might add.”

Rubin wrapped his hand around the knife again and stood from his stone block. Unintimidated, the figure stepped closer to the cell door. Rubin called it a door but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Twelve iron bars had been buried deep in the stone floor and likewise, driven far into the ceiling. They did not slide open with a clank nor did they bend or break. Even under the intense pressure of wishful thinking he made them endure each night.

“Now, now. I’ve only come to talk. You’re not caged like a wild animal because of me. I had nothing to do with that at all. In fact, it seems you have no one to blame for that but yourself. And perhaps Revick… or Kenneth.” Revick Royalty and Kenneth Osterman. Both were men Rubin had spent time with the night before the incident. But neither man had encouraged him to do what he had done. Why was this figure making such accusations?

When Rubin opened his mouth the stringy white film that had gathered there stretched and broke. He paused and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, not caring to remove the filth from his skin as he stared fiercely at the figure. “You know nothing of my circumstances. And you never will. So I suggest you quiet yourself down before I do it for you.”

The figure scoffed softly. “I don’t know about your circumstances. Me? I may not have made you do what you did, but I am well aware of your behavior.” A pause. “I look down upon it to say the least.” Despite curiosity as to who this figure was, all he could really ask himself was why he seemed so destined to be tortured by everyone he encountered.

The figure asked, “You don’t recognize me?”

Rubin didn’t know who the hell this person was. But something told him it was best to leave that unconfirmed. He narrowed his eyes. “Move along. You’re not wanted here.” He turned back to his stone table and block seat but didn’t move toward them. He simply slid his finger and thumb along either side of his knife’s blade.

“Careful. Your words are far more dangerous than that knife could ever be,” the figure said.

Rubin practically spoke in a whisper, a quiet growl. “If you truly believe that, then by all means… Come join me.”

There was a firm pressure on Rubin’s shoulder. He spun and drove the knife deep into the spot a fleshy throat should have been waiting in. But there was nothing there and no one at the bars any longer. There was nothing. No one. Like always. His frustration toward everything around him came out in a deep snarl.

Nothing in the nearly empty cell seemed too worried about him. The bare walls stood and stared in silence. The pair of uncomfortable beds lay perfectly still. Their dirty, old pillows were equally as disinterested. The single stone table and the stone block at its feet showed no more interest than the rest of his company. He glanced at the twelve tally marks above his table, then the twelve iron bars. He scoffed at the irony.

A second voice interrupted his hateful gaze at his cell. “Sit down Rubin.” Mother? Lords, what is she doing here?

He turned to see his slim cut mother leaning against the edge of his table. She was unnaturally visible in such a dark place. She also looked surprisingly spry and youthful for a woman whose face had already begun to wrinkle the last time he saw her. Her blonde hair hung to her shoulders and was far too neat and perfect for the woman he knew. Beautiful. That’s how his father would have described her. If he could have. Sometimes even a single word is too much to get out.

“Sit.” The force in her tone this time was familiar but his emotional response was quite different than it had been when he was a child. Back then he would cower in fear when his mother scolded him. But now, hearing her at all, firm or not, was nothing short of torture. Not wanting to upset her, he grinned at her childishly as he took his place on the uncomfortable block. Her perfume was different, unpleasant and harsh on his nostrils. Death was the only word he could think of to describe it. Certainly nothing like the warm vanilla scent that used to help him fall asleep.

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, Rubin?” How many times had he had this conversation with the woman? During her lifetime and after her death.

He lowered his head to avoid eye contact. A familiar behavior to say the least. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Well.” His mother was anything but patient.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t waste my time with that foolishness. Do as your father would expect. Start at the beginning.”

He stared at his mother as calmly as he could. His mind was racing wildly though. “There is no beginning. At least not one I can remember clearly.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” His tone was defiant and defensive now. “I woke up here. Obviously something had to have happened to get me here but I don’t remember what it was.” He bit his lip, hoping his mother couldn’t tell he was lying.

“Perhaps this will help you remember.” A single bullet appeared in her outstretched palm. It felt as though the bullet was piercing his own chest this time and not Nigel’s. Or perhaps this was the bullet that struck his father. Or her? That would make more sense given that his mother never really cared to acquire the taste of Nigel’s behavior, not once he had become a teenager. And things only got worse as he grew older. He doubted she cared much at all that Nigel may have died that night.

The two stared at one another. Rubin could feel the flimsy innocence that was spread across his face beginning to waver. It crushed him to think that his mother didn’t realize there was another reason he found himself in jail. One she had not been a part of. And several others the police hadn’t yet proven.

“Why are you carrying that around?”

A muscle in the corner of his mother’s mouth twitched gently. A sly grin? A thin smile? A drooping frown? He would never know. This is where she always left him. The bullet fell through her evaporating palm and hit the stone tabletop with a pinging clank. It bounced and tumbled toward the edge before falling off the table. Just as it had that tragic night. Only this time it vanished before it reached the dozens of other shells on the floor.

He looked at the dark bars of his cell again. I can’t spend the rest of my life here. I have to know if they survived.

The tapping was back. Slow and methodical this time. Grim and sullen. Rubin hurled the knife at the wall near the taunting cell door. The tip of the blade wedged itself in the stone floor when it fell, leaving the knife standing upright. A small part of his mind knew that if he had any control of himself in that moment he would have recognized the knife’s not so subtle attempt at showing him this wasn’t reality. But panic was taking over his mind. He needed out. Now.

Rubin burst to his feet. “Guard!” He charged the bars furiously, wrapped his hands around two of them, pressed his maniacal face between two others. “Guard! Get your ass over here!” A man appeared from thin air in a flash. Again, an incredible oddity was wasted on Rubin. “You have to let me out. Please.”

The guard stared at Rubin emotionlessly. Stoic. That’s how his father would have described the man. There would have been no need for such a word as long as emotionlessly in his father’s eyes.

“You have to let me out.” This time Rubin’s voice was a raspy growl that came from the bottom of his throat. “Now! You stoic piece of shit!”

The guard didn’t move. At first. Then, to Rubin’s surprise the hefty man took a step toward him a few seconds later. Then another. Until his hands were wrapped tight around Rubin’s and their faces were mere inches apart. Slowly the guard's smooth skin became crater-filled and dirty, his green eyes became blue, his bald head grew long brown hair. Before long, his bangs reached his bushy eyebrows. His clean nose bent and began to run. Rubin was staring at himself.

The next thing Rubin knew, two hands were shaking him. “Rubin. Wake up. Wake up Rubin.” The dark outline of his new cellmate, Theodore Wright, was hovering over him. The man’s features were lost in the darkness of the cell but his hands were large enough to make it obvious he was massive.

Rubin slapped Theodore’s hands off his chest and rolled toward the wall beside his uncomfortably small bed. An image of a childhood hero smiled at him, his hand frozen in a friendly wave, a basketball tucked under his other arm. Rubin stared at a tattered old poster. Fuck you.

“You looked like you were having a nightmare.” Theodore’s voice was surprisingly soft for a man that found himself in a jail cell. True concern could be heard in his tone.

“You don’t think I know that.”

“Just thought I’d spare you the shaking and screaming.”

“Thanks. But don’t ever touch me again.”

“Understood.” Theodore’s heavy footsteps could be heard walking back to his own horrible excuse for a bed.

Rubin muttered something from his curled up position in the corner that even his own ears couldn’t make out.

“What?” asked Theodore.

He rolled over. “I’ll kill if you ever wake me from my torture again.” Theodore now sat in a faint bit of light, just enough to show that he had not reacted to Rubin’s words the way Rubin expected. He simply raised a single bushy eyebrow and laid down on his back, his head resting on the thin, dirty pillow that had been in the cell even longer than Rubin. Theodore’s body was hefty. Muscular would be an understatement. His arms were twice the size of Rubin’s. If not more. His neck was thick and girthy. It looked unbreakable. So much so, that Rubin wondered if a knife could even find its way to the man’s windpipe. “You don’t think I will kill you?”

“I don’t think you can.” Theodore turned his head toward Rubin. There was a confident grin on his face but it was anything but rude.

Rubin smiled back. Deviously. It was clear to him that Theodore had never heard a melody full of bad intentions because if he had he would have been able to tell his life was in danger. But as Rubin’s mother often said, even obvious clues are only found by those smart enough to look for them. If only she had listened to her own profundity.