Janie and The Gray: Parts 16-17
Conversation. Parts sixteen and seventeen of a dystopian science-fantasy serial.
He looked different — more human, less inmate. He'd apparently found a comb, a razor, and some fresh clothes. He was pretty for a boy. His hair was combed back into a short ponytail. His lean face was freshly shaved, which accented delicate features. His brown eyes were tired, but alert. He wore a yellow and black flannel shirt, khaki cargo pants, and dark blue socks covered in cartoon narwhals.
He cracked open a can of Diet Coke and gulped greedily. "Still clear. How's your head?"
"Better," I replied. "I like your socks."
"Good — and thanks." His voice warmed as he lifted up a leg and wiggled his foot. "Dude had a whole drawer of weird socks."
His smile was like a sentence of dialogue all its own, framed by perfect quotation mark dimples.
"So, what's your name — really?"
"Ryan," he replied, taking another drink from the can.
"Thank you, Ryan — for helping me back there. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead. Or worse."
"Worse?"
"Captured.”
He nodded, understanding. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
"Why the smile? In the chow line."
"I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“Tough to miss in a room full of zombies,” he said.
“It was the door. Three years of meals in that cafeteria. It was always guarded."
“Three years?" We locked eyes, shock or disbelief registering there.
"Yeah, I was there from the start. I was captured a few weeks after the invasion and part of the first group of prisoners at the factory."
"Damn," he said.
"Yeah," I replied. "Joffrey was always there."
"Joffrey? The short one with the blaster."
I nodded.
“He was a prick,” Dimples said.
“He was pure fucking evil,” I corrected with much more force behind the words than I’d intended.
I popped another pretzel in my mouth and tilted the bag toward Dimples in offering.
"Nah, I’m good — crushed a couple cans of ravioli and pineapple. He left me alone for the most part.”
“Not me," I said, looking down and remembering.
As terrible scenes played out in my mind, silence stretched between us like thin ice over dark and frigid water.
"I stabbed him."
"You did?"
"Yeah, right in the eyeball with my spoon."
"Hardcore," he said, a note of triumph in his voice.
"Yeah, well, I was trained for this sort of thing," I said matter-of-factly.
"Really?"
"Yep, I'm a Creative Writing major."