Vistiation

The room was so dark, so cold. The walls were a shade of musty, dirty white. In the middle of the small room stood a very metal table. On one side sat a girl, and on the other sat a prisoner. He was wearing orange clothes and had shackles on his hands. He wasn’t smiling. They both had tears in their eyes. Their hands did not touch, but their eyes held each other.

You’ll get out, she said.

I’ll be here for fifteen years.

I’ll wait.

Did she wait? Was it worth it? No one knows. Can you separate a person from their crimes? She knew how to do that; her name was Whitney. She was madly in love with Max, who was sitting in front of her on a shabby chair. They met in high school. Both were from the Bronx, both were born into poverty. They understood each other well. Did they share anything else besides being hurt from the start? They were very unlucky in life; they were born into filth and only met because of that. Can you even call it luck?

She had a strange kindness in her eyes, as if she were Sonia and not Whitney, and he wasn’t Max, but Raskolnikov. And although he didn’t want to accept it, she had forgiveness for him. But no, he didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t stand it.

I ruined our lives.

No, Whitney smiled. His fists landed on the table.

Visitation is over! Back to your cell, bastard.

Two guards dragged him back. Whitney watched him go. That was the end. The visit was over. They’d have to wait two weeks for the next one.

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