I like the indoors. I know that statement is seldom heard, but for me it’s true. Nature and all of that has never really impressed me; it’s cold and dark and unfamiliar. Even when it tries to show off with bright colors and warmth, I know the unpredictability of it well and I’ve decided it’s just not for me.

I prefer to stay under my sheets, safely below the ones with the moth-eaten holes and unknown stains. I keep them neatly tucked into a simple metal bed frame, being sure to smooth them out a couple of times per day. I like security, which comes with my box of a room. It’s bare corners, scratched mirror, that one deteriorating toilet, and of course the bed are the only visible things I keep with me. Over time this uncomplicated room has become my home. It’s soft musty smell is the only thing that brings comfort nowadays. Besides Twiggy. I like to joke that he’s the only thing in this world that keeps me sane. At dawn each day, as I’m stretching my arms up towards the grey ceiling and watching the shadows slowly retreat, I’ll hear him call up from outside my window. 

It’s the same holler every time, “How ‘ya doin' today girl?” with my response being always, “Same as yesterday!"

I’ll tread lightly to peak out, my feet covered in dusty wool socks, yet still able to feel the cold seeping up from the icy concrete. My window is always coated in condensation and as I stick my nose out past the rusted metal, I’m able to see my breath, slowly drifting up against the thick glass. If I look down and squint my eyes, I can see him, belly against the brick. His knotted hair left to do as it pleases, twisting around his ears and tickling his shoulders. Twiggy’s lean figure makes barely a shadow and I can see that, like always, he has dressed himself in the same drab clothes, all brown and grey and black. Boring. If you weren’t paying attention it seemed as though he would just waft away into the gloom. Most days, he’ll call out, asking if a visitor would be welcome and I reply with, “But of course!” and we’ll get to work with him climbing up the side and slipping through the window. 

Every time he visits, there seems to be less and less of him and I can tell that his body has slowly begun to fade with the years. We’ll do a quiet ‘nice to see ya’ and then I’ll offer him some water, maybe even a cracker or two. Twiggy is always hungry. Most of the time I’ll still hear a muffled low rumble coming from a stomach and I’ll have to exclaim, “Well now, we must find you a snack! More than what I’ve got stored away.” and then the both of us will go to the door, loudly catching up from the last time he came to visit. 

It’s here that I always am forced to stop. The jiggling of the locked knob or my fingers sliding under the door frame angers the guards. And then they’ll begin their yelling. 

“Hey you! Number 115! Stay in your area! Stop with the muttering or we’ll come in and make you.” and then to someone far off, “Solitary confinement, upper floor, possibly need backup.” At this point I’ll sit back and hastily slip my fingers out from under the door to keep from being trampled by a thick boot. Then I’ll whip my head around, searching for Twiggy, but of course he’s gone, evaporated into thin air. I can see the blurred shadow of the figures outside and the thought of them entering my space makes me shudder. As I sit there, knees pulled tight against my frail chest, I can hear fragments of the conversation outside. It’s difficult to decipher what’s going on within my head versus beyond the door, but a clear topic keeps returning, forcing me into reality. I can hear one guard joke of what they would do to me if the Warden didn’t keep an eye out and another laughing, giving a more severe threat, discussing things that even my mind can’t picture. The degrading words being exchanged right in front of me pull forward a human instinct to defend myself. But my mind also recalls what could occur if I were to talk back and oppose their demeaning conversations. I sit there for a minute longer, listening to the two men, feeling humiliated. But then again, their threats are just words, pulled into the open to keep me quiet. 

Without holding too much more thought of what my actions may bring, I yell out. It’s a mixture of a scream and a dare, asking them to mess with me. They should know what I’m capable of. Twiggy sure did. My voice echoes around my head and down the bleak hallways and I pause, listening for movement. It’s not more than a second before the sound of metal scrapes my door and keys begin to clink. My dimly lit room is suddenly flooded with light and I can see the outline of a guard. As he stomps in and roughly grabs hold of my arm, I look around one last time for Twiggy. Instead I catch my face reflected in the little mirror. The woman who stares back looks cold, distant; her eyes sunken, hair sparse, and lips murmuring unknown words. Knowing her one friend is forever gone, she slouches into the guard’s grip. 

In this moment I can feel the years of guilt and grief washing over me and my mouth opens on its own, releasing weak shrieks, forced out by the pressure building inside. And I know this only causes trouble, but what else is there to do when you know you’ve ended your only friend? When you know that you can’t get him back. When you know it’s your fault, and your fault only. Twiggy’s face flashes through my mind one last time and I quietly apologize, hoping one day he’ll be able to forgive the ugly things I did and someday, sometime soon, we’ll be reunited.