The only punishment worse than being sentenced to time in The Box is being tortured to death.  Poor Lenny, that’s how he died.  I know he died.  I heard his blood-curdling screams the first week I started to rot away in here.  It was worse when they stopped, because I knew.  I knew he was gone.  I’ve estimated I’ve been in here six months now. 
       
       The first couple weeks were the hardest.  In the beginning your back becomes extremely sore.  It’s not bad for a while, but after a few days of lying on hard, flat wood, it becomes excruciating.  Next comes the pins and needles.  Your whole body begins to feel like it’s being poked and prodded, and you want to scream.  Moving around only makes it hurt more, even though your body aches from the lack of movement.  The most awful part is when your whole body just goes numb.  You start to live entirely in your own head, which can be a scary place.

*****

  I startle awake, hitting my head on the top of the Box.  A cuss word slips out of my mouth, and out of habit, my hands immediately cover up my mouth in embarrassment.  My father used to whip me whenever I used foul language.  “Hey potty mouth, dinner’s served,” a gruff voice says.  It sounds muffled because I’m encased by thick slabs of wood.  The small flap at the head of the Box opens up, and in comes a small meal bar I could easily eat in one bite, and half a bottle of well water.

  I grab the bar desperately and devour it in three bites.  It tastes like dog food, but I don’t care, I’m so hungry.  They only feed us a couple times a week, and an insufficient amount.  Meal bars are a convenient choice, even though they taste like crap.  They’re small, cheap, keep us alive, and best of all, they’re completely absorbed by our system, so we never have to go to the bathroom.  I quickly down the water and then push my scraps out the flap.

  “Hungry much?” the guard asks.  I don’t respond.  They are cruel people, all of them.  They think of every single one of us criminals as worthless scum, and they’re not afraid to voice it.  After he finally leaves, I curl up into a ball, hugging my knees tight against my chest, and try to re-enter the worlds my restless mind creates.

I find myself sitting on the front steps of my family’s old ranch, gazing out at the barren desert.  I can see our small town, the size of a couple of streets, off in the distance.  It is hot, but the shade from the porch and the dry wind make it comfortable.  “Stonzi?” a familiar little voice asks.  I jerk my head to the left, and there sits my little sister in the flesh, looking up at me with her big blue gray eyes.  Her hair is longer as well, and a little darker, although it’s still a blinding blond.  “Eva,” I say, smiling from ear to ear.  She raises her little arms up, and I pull her onto my lap for a hug, holding back tears.  She smells like sand and coconut shampoo.  I haven’t seen her since that dreadful night when the police came.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, looking up and noticing the tears that are swelling up.  I nod my head, “Yeah, I’m okay, Baby Girl.”  She frowns, “I told you to stop calling me that.  I’m six now,” she responds.  I just laugh and kiss the top of her head.  I love Eva like a mother loves her daughter.

       I practically was her mother.  My father was gone, my parents got divorced right after Eva was born, my mother, thankfully, getting full custody of us.  We were poor, and she spent all day on our farm, tending to the chickens and cattle, selling their eggs and milk to make enough money to take care of the three of us.  She also had the greenhouse to look after; it was our only source of fresh fruits and vegetables we could get on this blasted planet.  I was almost ten years old when my mother had Eva.  It was unexpected, and my mom didn’t have the time anymore to take care of a baby.  She knew I was responsible enough to raise her, so I did.  I changed her every diaper, put her to bed every night, taught her how to eat regular foods, how to walk, how to talk, how to be polite.  It was tough, especially since I also had school and homework, but I’d figured it out.

       Eva wiggles out of arms and goes back to her spot on the porch steps.  She has her notebook laying there, covered with colorful drawings of the world around her.  The tears are falling down my cheeks now, and I wipe them away with my arm.  “You know, crying’s supposed to be good for you,” another familiar voice says behind me.  I turn around and it’s Lenny.  His hair is standing straight up, like he’s been electrocuted, same as always, and his bright blue eyes are crinkled up, smiling at me.  “Hi,” I say, ginning back at him.  He sits down next to me and leans back against the railing.  “You look really pretty today,” he says, still smiling.  It’s one of those smiles that can light up a whole room, and he knows it.  I just smirk and shake my head.  “No, seriously, I like your hair in a braid like that,” he says.  I reach back and feel it.  I didn’t know it was in a braid.

 
     “What are you doing here?” I ask.  “Well, my mom and dad kicked me out of the house.  ‘Get off the computer.  Go see your girlfriend,’ they said.” His impression of his mom is awful.  “Once again, I told her you were most definitely not my girlfriend, and then we had the same argument we’ve had about a hundred times about why I’m not dating you yet.  Is it possible for people in their 40’s to have dementia?  My mom has the memory of a goldfish,” he says.  “I don’t think it’s very common… it’s much more likely she has short-term memory loss,” I respond.  “Yeah, well you would know, you were always the psychology nut,” he laughs.  “Says the guy who could take apart and put back together just about any appliance blindfolded,” I respond.      


      “Oh, stop flattering me,” he says, smiling innocently.

       “It’s not flattery; it’s me calling you a big fat nerd.”

       “We’re both big fat nerds.  It’s a common disease among highly intelligent individuals.”

       “Doesn’t ‘nerd’ mean a highly intelligent individual?”

       “Well, it means someone who is an expert in one single field.  I think that’s pretty accurate, except I am a genius in everything else as well.
       “You wish!  You’ve come close to flunking history the past few years.”

       “Yeah, well, who needs to know the names of the past 101 presidents?  History, as a subject, is completely unnecessary in life.”

       “Well, if we know the mistakes we made in the past, we won’t make the same mistakes in the future,” I say, quoting one of our history teachers.  “That’s a load of mullarky,” Lenny responds.

*****

       We sit there in silence after that.  It’s not awkward; we’re just taking everything in; each other, the outdoors, the quietness.  It’s nice.  “God, I miss this,” I say, looking out at the land.  “Me too,” Lenny agrees.  “Me three,” Eva says from her notebook.  It all makes me want to start crying again.  How the hell could I mess up so badly?