A Glimpse Through the cracks
The sun was dipping behind the hills, casting long shadows across the perimeter fencing. From a distance, the place could pass for an abandoned factory. But inside, it was alive — not with hope or freedom, but with the low hum of confinement and unfinished wars.
T. Boy sat on his cot, chewing the wooden end of a spoon absently. His tray of food — mashed potatoes, overcooked beans, and a stale dinner roll — had lost its steam long ago. He barely noticed. His thoughts were somewhere else.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, lighter than usual. T. Boy stood, stretching a little as the door slid open and a familiar figure walked in — the military postman. the indispensable military aide who doubled as the outpost's messenger.
"Hey," T. Boy called out as the man stepped toward the cell next door with a brown envelope in hand. "Anything for me today?"
The postman paused, half-turned, and gave a warm but bittersweet smile.
"Nope. Nothing for you, Man."
T. Boy tilted his head, feigning hope. "Come on, not even a letter from home?"
The postman's smile grew colder, sharper. "Home?" He chuckled softly, then added with a shrug, "You destroyed home already, do you remember?"
The words sank like a stone into T. Boy's chest. He smirked faintly to mask it. "Guess I did," he murmured.
The postman walked away. Silence took over again.
Later that evening, while the air grew heavier with heat and distant thunder threatened the calm, T. Boy was pacing in his room — restless, bored, and for the first time in days, a little curious.
The heavy bolts of the cell clicked open again, and this time, it was John Slow — his presence unmistakable even before he stepped into view.
T. Boy looked up with a grin. "I knew you'd be back."
John said nothing, just walked in and leaned against the frame.
"I was thinking," T. Boy said as he sat down on the edge of the cot, "You run those soldiers pretty hard out there."
"They need discipline," John replied.
"Can I join them?"
John blinked. "Join them?"
"Yeah. Workout. Sweat a little. Clear my head." T. Boy stretched his arms. "I'm losing track of the days in here, man."
John studied him. "This isn't a summer camp."
"I know what it is. Still... you think I'm a demon, maybe see how a demon performs in drills. You might like the results."
John was silent. At first, his answer was a firm shake of the head.
But then something flickered in his eyes like a test, maybe.
The next morning, before the sun cracked the sky, T. Boy stood beside a lineup of young soldiers — most barely out of high school, each one with sand still in their eyes and doubt in their bones.
He wore no uniform, just his prison fatigues. But he blended in oddly well — more focused, more grounded than most of them.
John Slow called out drills, shouted commands. T. Boy followed without hesitation — pushups, squats, sprints, formations. He kept up. Even outpaced some.
When they paused for water, T. Boy walked over to John, catching his breath.
"I ever tell you I used to box?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"No," John replied.
"Yeah… Guys in the hood taught me, in between hangovers."
John didn't laugh. He simply nodded. "Maybe that's why you hit the world so hard, get ready for a therapy session very soon." He said and walked away to his office.
T. Boy smirked but didn't respond.
It wasn't long after that session ended that the moment came.
That evening, as the sky turned bruised purple, another knock came on T. Boy's door. The same officer from before, the young one with the clipboard, entered again — this time more confident.
"you are T. Boy?"
T. Boy was reclining on his bed, arms behind his head.
"Still not going by that name," he said. "But let's hear it."
"You've been officially scheduled for psychological therapy. First session starts tomorrow morning, 0900 hours."
T. Boy raised an eyebrow. "Therapy? What, am I now a charity case?"
"Standard procedure," the officer repeated. "After integration with military trainees, evaluations are mandatory."
T. Boy snorted. "So I'm finally being evaluated. Took long enough, I thought it was a joke"
The officer offered no reaction, only turned and exited as the door shut behind him.
Left alone, T. Boy stared at the ceiling again.
"They want to talk now," he whispered to the silence. "But what if I talk back?"
Somewhere down the corridor, someone screamed from another cell.
But T. Boy — the sinner, the fighter, the lost boy in a man's body — was too deep in thought to hear it.
To be continued....