Days turned into weeks.
Weeks into months.
Fred adapted to the brutal life behind bars.
Wake up before dawn
Eat garbage
Endure beatings
Mop floors that would be dirty again an hour later
Each day felt endless, like a cruel joke.
But what hurt the most wasn't the beatings.
It wasn't even the hunger.
It was the silence.
Every Sunday afternoon was visitation day.
Inmates' families lined up in the cracked-walled hall:
Mothers hugging their sons
Sisters crying with relief
Girlfriends sneaking kisses under the dirty glass window
Fred sat alone in his assigned chair every Sunday.
He waited.
Hope burning inside him, betraying him.
Maybe today.
Maybe Mom would come.
Maybe Lisa — the girl he loved — would walk through that iron door.
Maybe his sister, Gloria, who used to braid his hair when they were kids.
Maybe someone.
But the chair across him stayed empty.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Even the guards began to pity him.
One older guard, Sergeant Otieno — 45 years old, deep dark skin, tall with tired eyes — muttered once:
> "Boy... sometimes no one comes. Not because they don't love you... but because life out there doesn't wait for anyone."
Fred just nodded.
But inside, something shattered a little more each time.
---
One grey morning, after breakfast, Malik slid something under Fred's food tray —
a crumpled piece of paper.
Fred stared at him, confused.
Malik just smirked and walked off.
Fred unfolded the dirty paper.
It wasn't signed.
It wasn't addressed to anyone.
But the words stabbed deeper than any knife.
> "To the boy forgotten by the world:
They won't remember your face.
They won't remember your pain.
But remember — a seed grows best buried in dirt, alone, unseen.
Rise when no one expects it. Rise when even you have forgotten hope.
Because when you rise... they will regret ever turning their backs."
Fred's vision blurred.
Tears — the first in months — burned in his eyes.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and pressed it against his heart.
Maybe it was from Malik.
Maybe it wasn't.
It didn't matter.
He made a silent vow:
> "I will not die forgotten."
---
That evening, under the leaking pipes where rats feasted, Fred finally asked Malik:
> "Who were you... before this place?"
Malik laughed — a broken, bitter sound.
> "Once? I was a scholarship kid. Top of my class. Captain of the debate team. Wanted to be a lawyer."
Fred blinked, stunned.
Malik looked up, eyes distant.
> "Until I got framed. Rich kids — their fathers owned the city. I was the poor ghetto boy who didn't know his place."
He rolled up his sleeve.
A scar snaked down Malik's forearm — jagged and ugly.
> "They paid off the judge. Paid off the witnesses. Even my best friend lied on the stand."
Fred felt cold inside.
The injustice of it all.
The cruelty.
Malik turned to him, voice like a blade:
> "Third lesson, Fred: The world won't be fair. But you can still win."
---
That night, Fred couldn't sleep.
The other boys snored around him.
Mosquitoes whined in the humid air.
Fred stared at the metal ceiling, fists clenched, teeth grinding.
He thought of his mother's promises.
> "I'll always be there for you, Fred."
He thought of Lisa's kisses under the mango tree.
> "We'll go to campus together, Fred. Build a life together."
He thought of Gloria's hugs.
> "You're my little lion, Fred. Never let the world tame you."
He thought... and thought...
Until finally, Fred opened his mouth and screamed.
A raw, wordless scream — not loud, but deep enough to tear him inside out.
Nobody heard.
Nobody cared.
Only the rats.
And the ghosts.
---
In the morning, Fred dragged himself up.
He washed his face with cold, rusty water.
He straightened his torn uniform.
He tied his battered sneakers.
One step at a time.
Every breath — a rebellion.
Every step — a refusal to die.
Brayo sneered when he passed him.
Kevin glared.
Other boys watched, waiting for Fred to collapse.
Fred smiled.
A broken, bleeding smile.
But a real one.
He wouldn't break.
Not yet.
Not today.
---