The Scapegoat's Return: Watch Me Shine Now

The heavy steel door slammed shut.

The sound was not a metaphor. It was a physical force that hit the back of Crysta's skull, traveled down her spine, and vibrated in her molars.

She stood on the cracked concrete. The sunlight hit her retinas like shattered glass. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands rising to shield her face. For three years, her world had been lit by the sickly yellow hum of fluorescent tubes. This natural light physically hurt.

"Miller."

Crysta opened her eyes. Correctional Officer Sean McCoy stood on the other side of the yellow line. His face held the exact same expression he used when ordering inmates to strip for contraband checks.

"You are free," McCoy said. His voice was flat, devoid of any human inflection. "Do not come back."

He turned his back and walked away. The secondary gate buzzed and locked behind him.

Crysta looked down at her hands. She was wearing a gray sweat suit issued by the state. It was two sizes too big. The fabric scratched against her collarbones. In her right hand, she held a thin manila envelope. It contained her release papers, a plastic ID card, and twenty-seven dollars.

Twenty-seven dollars. That was the exact monetary value of three years of her life, earned by scrubbing toilets and mopping vomit in Cell Block D.

She looked up. The highway stretched out in front of her, a gray ribbon cutting through dead, brown dirt. There were no buildings. There were no people. The nearest bus station was five miles away.

Her stomach contracted. A sharp, acidic pain twisted just below her ribs. She had not eaten since the watery oatmeal at 5:00 AM.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel made her flinch. Her right hand immediately went to her left wrist, her thumb rubbing the raw skin where the plastic identification band had lived for over a thousand days.

An old, rusted Ford pickup truck pulled out of the prison visitor parking lot. Crysta stepped back, pressing her spine against the chain-link fence. She wanted nothing to do with anyone who had business at this facility.

The truck did not pass her. It slowed down and stopped. The passenger window rolled down with a mechanical squeal.

A woman leaned over the center console. She had deep lines around her mouth and tired, kind eyes.

"Need a ride, child?" the woman asked. Her voice was soft. "Going to the bus terminal in town?"

Crysta froze. Her thumb dug harder into her left wrist. In the driver's seat, a young man gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. He stared at Crysta with hard, suspicious eyes.

Crysta's throat was coated in dust. She tried to speak, but her vocal cords refused to work. Isolation had stolen her ability to engage in casual conversation. She swallowed hard, forcing saliva down her dry throat.

She nodded.

"Thank you," she rasped.

She pulled the heavy metal door handle and climbed into the back seat. The moment the door closed, a scent hit her face. Cinnamon. Baked flour. Melted butter. It smelled like a kitchen. It smelled like a life she had forgotten existed.

The woman looked at Crysta through the rearview mirror. She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans, a nervous, comforting gesture.

"My son, Ricky," the woman said, her voice cracking slightly. "He is in there, too."

"Mom," the young man driving snapped. His jaw muscles flexed. "Do not tell strangers our business."

The woman ignored him. "He was supposed to get visitation today. But he got into trouble again."

Crysta stared at the back of the woman's head. Her chest tightened. She knew exactly what "trouble" meant in that building. It meant solitary confinement. It meant cold concrete and the smell of your own waste.

She said nothing. The truck rattled over the uneven asphalt. Crysta watched the razor wire fade into the distance. Her breathing was shallow. She kept waiting for someone to yell at her, to tell her to face the wall.

Twenty minutes later, the truck pulled into the dirt lot of the Greyhound bus terminal.

Crysta pushed the door open. Her legs felt like lead. She stepped out and turned to the window. "Thank you."

"Wait," the woman said.

She reached into her worn leather purse. She pulled out a single twenty-dollar bill and a few crumpled singles, shoving them through the window.

"Take this, child," the woman said. "It is enough for a hot meal and a bus ticket. Starting over requires a little luck."

Crysta stared at the green paper. Her brain short-circuited.

"Mom, we need to go," the son growled, his arms crossing tightly over his chest.

Crysta stepped back. Her hands shook. "I cannot take that."

"Take it," the woman insisted, leaning further out the window. She grabbed Crysta's hand and pressed the money into her palm. "Consider it buying good karma for a mother who just wants her boy to come home. Go buy yourself something to eat."

The raw grief in the woman's eyes punched the air out of Crysta's lungs. She could not fight it.

Her fingers closed over the cash. She counted it by touch. Twenty-three dollars.

The truck pulled away, kicking up a cloud of dust. Crysta stood alone in the parking lot. She gripped the small wad of money so hard her fingernails cut into her palm. The physical pain grounded her.

She looked up at the gray sky. Her throat burned. For the first time in three years, hot, wet tears spilled over her eyelashes and tracked down her cheeks.

She wiped her face violently with the back of her sleeve. Showing weakness in public was a habit she needed to break.

She walked into the terminal. The air smelled of diesel and stale coffee. She walked to the ticket counter.

She did not buy a ticket to the city she used to call home. That place was a graveyard.

"One ticket to Cedarwood," Crysta told the clerk.

She handed over the cash. She took her ticket. She walked out to the boarding lane, leaving the ghost of Crysta Miller behind.