Number 10

(Found in the basement of Stragview Correctional Institute in the file of Bradley Swanson Cooper. The file identifies him as Subject 10.)

I don't even know if anyone will read this, but if I don't get something down, I'm likely to lose my shit worse than I already have.

I am prisoner 468954, but you can call me Brad. I've been here for the last ten years, and I've gotta say that prison life is not as bad as they make it out to be. Three squares a day, two trips to the yard a week, and not once has anyone tried to screw me in the shower, dropped soap or not. This place is weird, though, and I should know because I've spent most of my life in and out of places like this. I went to juvie when I was just eleven for beating another kid nearly to death with my fists. The court said it was assault, but if they'd seen what he was doing to my little sister, and him fourteen years old and bigger than either of us, they'd have given me a medal. But since my little sister refused to testify, and his friends said he hadn't done anything, I got three years in a "juvenile rehabilitation center." "Juvenile rehabilitation center" is a fancy word that grownups use for a place where older kids rack you over daily for being littler than them, and your life is a living hell. I've seen some things that would wreck you for life in there, but I survived, and when they let me out at fourteen, my real career began.

I was in and out of jail and Juvenile Rehabilitation Centers for the rest of my teenage years.

Breaking and entering, assault, drugs, public intoxication, and truancy were a few of their favorites, but if they'd known the other stuff I got up to, they'd have locked me away and thrown out the key. Once I was eighteen, I found my true calling as a bank robber. Some of the guys in the gang I ran with had lofty ideas about getting rich and getting out, but it was all about the thrill for me. At the trial, I was accused of robbing eight banks throughout the state, but the system was off big time once again. I'm pretty sure I robbed twenty-seven banks, but it gets fuzzy after a while, and I'm not sure it counts if you rob the same bank more than once. I may have robbed almost thirty banks, but I can honestly say that murder wasn't my bag. That lady at number twenty-six who got shot was a fluke. She startled me, fuckin old broad, and the gun just went off in my hand. I never learned whether she lived or died, but after that job, I got sloppy, and that's why I'm here.

Stragview Correctional Institute has been my home since then. Like I said, as far as prisons go, it's not too bad. The chow is alright, not the best, but alright. On the yard, the guys there give me some distance while I pump iron or run the track, and if I wanna join a basketball game or something, I'm always more than welcome. There are gangs, there always are, but I decided when I first got here that I wasn't going to be a part of any prison gang. I'd keep my nose clean and my head down and serve out my time. Plus, it's nice not to have to sleep with an eye open while you wait for that shiv from a rival gang. I take my shower, go to my court-ordered anger management, don't make trouble in the yard, and generally try to keep my nose clean so that I can get paroled.

It's a good system, but man, it feels like I've been here a million years sometimes.

At least until today, it did.

CO Handscomb and CO Bright came to get me for a head shrinking session today. I started to refuse, but it never seems to do any good. Every few years, they stick me with some headshrinker who tries to get me in "the right mindset for my parole hearing." They talk a lot of talk about how I need to "Wake up to my situation" and "Make better choices once I've paid my debt to society." It's a crock of shit, of course. I know for a fact that they don't let murderers out of here, and even if they did, they certainly don't let murderous, bank-robbing, career criminals out of prison early for good behavior. The parole hearings are usually just as much of a shit show as the therapy sessions. They bring me up in front of the board, and I charm them and tell them what I know they want to hear. Then they say, "Well, this is a model inmate who's ready to re-enter society," and then I get taken right back to my cell so my days can start again.

Nothing ever changes around here but the Friday special.

At least I thought so.

Handscomb and Bright wouldn't tell me anything about this new shrink, but that's okay, I guess. I like both of them, their pretty good guys as far as screws go. It's weird how every time I see them, though, I feel like I've met them before. Handscomb is a mystery, big lanky guy that doesn't say much, but Bright's no mystery at all. He looks just like Tommy B, a fellow gang member back in my teenage days. These two could be brothers, maybe even twins, and it's always comforting to see a familiar face. The two lead me to a familiar little room and unlock the door, so I can see this new shrink.

It was a lady this time. I've had female shrinks before, but this one was a real babe. Tall, long legs, really fills out that pantsuit, with long blonde hair that she's turned into ringlets. Except...its weird, but I get this odd feeling about her when I look at her. She's familiar somehow, but its also kind of a guilty feeling, like when you see your mom naked and get a little hot. She looks at me over the top of her librarian glasses, though, and I can see that all she's feeling towards me is another success story. She's had some things I'd like to make a story out of but thinking about her and me together makes me feel kinda...guilty again. There's just something about her that makes me feel wrong for feeling that way, and it makes me defensive almost at once.

"Hello Bradley, how are you feeling today?" Her voice is light and sexy and very appealing.

"Brad, nobody's called me Bradley since my mom died."

Her face registered momentary pain, but she hid it well, "Okay, Brad, my names Catherine and I'm here to prepare you for…"

"For my next bullshit session with the parole board, right?"

She quirked a delicate eyebrow, "Do you not want to be paroled?" she asked, and it wasn't in the angry way they usually ask. Coming from her, it sounded like she was genuinely interested. Or maybe disappointed.

"Lady…" I say, but she cuts me off.

"Catherine."

"Catherine, I find the idea that they'd just let a guy like me out of prison very funny."

"Why is that?" she asks, not taking notes in favor of staring into me with those way too familiar eyes.

"Well, I'm a career criminal, Cathy. I've been in the system longer than I've been out, and that makes for a very high return rate. Plus, I'm pretty sure they don't let people who murder people out of prison unless it's inside a body bag."

"Who said you were a murderer?"

I laughed, but it came off as more of a scoff, "Cathy, have you ever shot anyone with a shotgun at close range?"

She shakes her head, and those sexy corkscrews bounce a little as she does, "No."

"Well, I'm here to tell you that it doesn't end well. I shot that lady close enough to vaporize her, and I saw how much blood was on the floor after I ran. If she ain't dead, then I'm a duck."

"Well, you better start quacking then because your victim survived."

I sat back a little, "Are you serious?"

She looked back at my guards and asked them sweetly if she could have a moment alone with me. Bright warned her that I was likely to jump her the second the door closed, but she only glanced over at me and asked me if I'd do such a thing? I told her I wouldn't, and she turned back and told the guards she'd only need a few minutes. Handscomb and Bright looked at each other, and after a few seconds contemplation, they both left.

Catherine waited till the door had closed to lean across the table, "We don't have much time, so I need you to listen to me."

That got my attention, "Listen to you?"

"None of this is real. The prison, those guards, your prison friends, none of it is real. This prison is crafted from your imagination."

I laughed then, "Is this some therapist bullshit or something? The prison is in my mind, I am the master of my destiny, blah blah blah?"

She didn't relent.

"I'm very serious, Bradly. You need to listen very carefully." For a moment, her intensity kind of scared me, "You're a subject in an ongoing research program code-named SleepAway. In exchange for your cooperation, they took time off your lengthy sentence in exchange for ten years in the program."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I was getting a little weirded out by this whole exchange, "Are you telling me that I'm some kind of guinea pig in some big experiment that's been going on for the last ten years?"

"No," she said, looking a little pained, "I'm telling you that you're the subject of an experiment that's been going on for the last twenty-five years."

I sat in stunned silence for a few seconds as I tried to process what she was telling me, "That's impossible. I've only been in here for ten years."

"How long were you in here before the parole board started meeting with you?" she asked, and the smirk on her face told me that she thought she had me.

"Five years," I said but immediately knew that was wrong. Had it been ten years since they started coming around? Fifteen maybe? It was hard to tell in this place. Time becomes so weird after a while that sometimes a day feels like a week, and a year feels like an afternoon. I thought back and was pretty sure it had only been eight years at the most. When I said so, her next question came in just as guarded.

"And how many parole hearings have you been in over the years?"

Three was my first thought, but that was wrong. Five? Maybe as many as twelve. It was the same problem as before. They all ran together in a long line of faces behind a table. The more I thought about them, the more I came to realize that they were the exact same three faces. The black lady in the pantsuit who looked like my caseworker, the bald guy with the mustache and the pressed white shirt who looked like my shop teacher at the juvenile facility I'd been at when I was thirteen and the Chinese guy in the business suit reminded me of guy who sold drugs for us when I was with the gang. Faces I knew, even though some were vague, who'd come back to me on the inside. Then I started thinking about Handscomb and Bright again and realized Bright didn't just look like Tommy B; he was Tommy B the last time I'd seen him. Tommy was gonna get his life back together for his son, he said. He'd hopped a bus and left town for good. Handscomb, though, why was he so familiar? Then it hit me! He was a guy at the liquor store that always sold us booze on discount. But then who was the therapist then? I'd never seen anyone like her...or, had I?

"I'd wager I look familiar too, don't I?" she said.

That made me shiver a little because I had just been thinking that exact same thing.

"I bet if you thought hard enough, thought back to the day you were in court, you'd realize I look just like your little sister."

I felt sweat breaking out all over. She was right. Cathy! When I'd seen her in court that day, I didn't even recognize her. I'd let my mind wander to the hot little number in the front row a few times. I had fantasized about running my hands through those corkscrew curls, feeling her naked skin under my hands, anything really to take my mind off being in court. When she'd taken the stand, and they'd identified her as my little fucking sister, though, I felt like I could puke right there and then. I mean, I'm a hardened criminal and all, but I ain't into that. I felt more ashamed when she told them how I'd always been kind to her, beating up that boy who'd tried to grope her, making sure she had money, taking care of her when my parents couldn't be bothered. Thinking back, I had to wonder if she was the reason I was in this program at all.

I stood, stunned, and when she leaned across the table toward me, I recoiled a little.

"I don't look like this anymore, Bradly. Life's been hard for me since you went away. You've been inside for nearly twenty-six years, and if I'd known you were stuck in this purgatory, I'd have come to help you fifteen years ago."

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, "Cathy? Is it you?"

She reached across and took my hand, "I'm sorry Bradly, I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you when we were kids; the way you stood up for me. But I'm trying to make amends. I'm trying to get my big brother back before it's too late."

"Too late? Too late for what? Can't they pull the plug and let me out?"

"No, Bradly, pulling the plug would kill you, but there's a way that you can get out. All of these parole hearings were put in place to release you from the program. Your mind has been returning you to your cell all these years instead of releasing you. You're the one keeping yourself trapped here, Brad, not the technicians, and you're the one that has to get yourself out."

"How?" I asked, already falling into desperation. I was never smart, never good at shit like this, and the thought of thinking my way out of my head made my brain hurt. A part of my mind still argued that this was all bullshit. The shrink was just trying to mess with me. But if that was the case, then how did she know about Cathy? How did she know how I felt when I looked at her?

How did she know so much about the things I'd only thought about.

"The technicians have sent me in for a short time only. As far as their concerned, the experiment is a success. Nine candidates out of ten waking up fine is okay with them. One in ten is an acceptable margin for error when they're dealing with people classified as undesirables. If I come back and you don't wake up before the end of the day, then they're going to pull the plug, and you'll die. When I leave, though, your guards will come back, and they'll take you before the parole board. When they say you can go, you have to go with them; no matter what happens, you have to go with them, okay?"

She stiffened, a single, perky breast pressing against the fabric of her top and making me feel like a bigger creep than I knew I was. Finally, she turned back to look at me, "They're bringing me out. Don't forget, you have to go with the parole board if you want to live. You have to go with them, Bradly." then before my eyes, she started to fade out like someone being beamed up in a bad sci-fi movie.

"I love you, big brother," she said just before she disappears entirely.

Then they took me back to my cell. Bright and Handscome walked me back to my cell, where I paced and paced and worried about the coming meeting. I had to go with them, no matter the outcome, I had to go with them. I had to get out of here. This would be my only chance at escape, and if I were going to get out of my own head, the moment would be now, and it would be fleeting.

But the moment never came. I've been sitting here for an hour now, and no one has come to get me. I banged on the door, tried to wrench it open, screamed till I was hoarse, but no one has come to get me. I found this stack paper on the table with a pen, and I started writing all this out so there would be some record somewhere of my last hours. I don't know what's going on, maybe my mind is still trying to keep me here, or maybe they never ran the program to bring me out, but if anyone ever reads this, please do me one favor.

Tell my little sister, Catherine Swayne Cooper, that I love her and thank her for trying to help her stupid, worthless brother escape the inescapable.

Tell her thanks for trying to help me escape my own head.