Rocking

Rocking

The visiting room was cold, hard and oppressive as always. My breathing is even as I walked my weekly pilgrimage to our designated glass box. Avoiding eye contact, I lift the unnaturally heavy black receiver to my ear.
‘Hello, son’
My gaze tentatively flickers upward and once again the folded arms and orange jumpsuit make my heart flutter. But I take another steadying breath. He’s my boy, I have to be strong for him.
‘Michael, my lawyer is still looking for loopholes in the system, but it’s not looking too good’
I hesitate and raise my eyes once more at his stony expression. Nearly immediately I’m forced to look away.
‘But they say you can be out of this place in another fifteen years if you don’t start any more fights… he might even set you up with a nice job if we can get rid of those awful tattoos…’
My speech gutters out as I force myself to ignore the thick black swastikas etched deep into his cheeks.
‘It really won’t be that long until we’re able to be a family again Michael, wouldn’t you like that? Michael?’
My gaze lowers again to my shaking hand, and I can hear the legs of his chair creak as he swings back and forth. I cannot bring myself to look at the smirk I know is on his face. The same smirk he wore in court, when they arrested him, when they found what was left of that little girl…
I struggle to keep my breathing even again. Viciously pushing the fresh ebb of tears away, I ensnare my knee to keep it steady with the hand not bound to the dark telephone receiver. I close my eyes to ignore the solid bricks of the booth moving in on me. I fight the urge to bolt from this horrible place, but I can’t think about that now… not when I’m spending time with my son.
He is still rocking. Creaking, swinging away our time together. Minutes pass as I rack my brain for any tentative triviality that he has not yet smashed with his silently merciless stone expression. The dull throb of the clock on the wall behind me is the only thing that distracts me from my desperate search, and the cold granite chips of my son’s eye’s bolting me to the chair.
A guard beckons at me and taps his watch. On the other side of the glass my son has already turned away gesturing for the warden to wrap the shining cuffs around him more quickly. I cannot suppress a sob. My last glimpse of him before turning to leave is that of the glee stretching his lacerated face. I cannot force a final choked reassurance that everything will be okay, that I will see him again next week. Hateful tears stream down from my eyes as I escape from the prison. I cannot say if I will return to my son next week, or he to me.