Chapter 3: 8 Years of Suffering (3)
Morning came gray again, the thin light leaking through the narrow window like a dull blade cutting into the gloom. Edgar sat on his bunk, his back straight against the cold wall, eyes wide open long before the first bell rang. Sleep had been a stranger for years, chased away by nightmares and the constant ache in his bones. The memory of yesterday's "good news" gnawed at him, bitter and metallic, like rust coating his tongue. Innocence on paper? It didn't erase the scars, the screams echoing in his head, the pieces of himself left broken on these prison floors.
"Hey, Munsen," a guard's voice called down the corridor, hesitant and edged with caution. "Your family's here to see you."
Edgar didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, where shadows pooled like spilled ink. The word "family" felt foreign now, a relic from a life that no longer fit.
"I don't want to meet them," he said, his voice flat and low, carrying just enough force to make the air feel heavier.
"What?" The guard sounded unsure, like he'd expected anything but that. His boots shifted on the concrete, a nervous scrape.
"I SAID I DON'T WANT TO MEET THEM!" Edgar's shout exploded from him, raw and sudden, bouncing off the walls like a warning shot.
The guard flinched, his keys jingling as he backed up a step. "A-alright, geez—don't scare me like that. You know your reputation here." He turned so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, the sound of his retreat echoing down the hall, fading into the distant clang of doors.
They came again the next day. The same guard poked his head in, voice softer this time, like he was approaching a wild animal. "Munsen, your folks are back."
Edgar ignored him, staring at the same crack in the wall he'd memorized years ago. The guard waited a beat, then shrugged and left without another word.
The day after that, the guard returned, his face pale and sweaty, like he'd drawn the short straw again. "They're here again, Munsen. They won't leave. Sitting in the waiting area like statues."
Edgar's patience, thin as frayed rope, finally cracked. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he felt the old anger stir, hot and familiar. 'Fine,' he thought. 'Let them see what they made.' "Fine," he growled out loud. "Tell them to wait ten minutes."
The guard nodded frantically, relief flooding his eyes, and disappeared down the hall, his steps quicker than before.
---
Edgar rose from the bunk, his movements slow and deliberate, like every joint remembered the weight of chains. He showered under the icy spray, the water stinging his skin like needles, washing away nothing but the grime of the night. He dressed in the stiff prison uniform, the fabric rough against his scars, a constant reminder of the man he'd become. Then he walked to the visitation room, his footsteps steady, calm as a man approaching an execution—knowing the end was near, but not fearing it anymore.
When he stepped through the door, four people rose to their feet, chairs scraping against the floor. The room felt smaller with them in it, the air thick with unspoken words and the faint scent of cheap perfume and aftershave.
His mother clutched her purse as if it were a shield, her knuckles white, her face lined deeper than he remembered. His father stood stiff beside her, his broad shoulders hunched, eyes hollow and red-rimmed. His younger brother, Mark, couldn't meet his gaze, staring at the table like it held answers. And his sister, Lisa, was already crying, silent tears tracking down her cheeks, her hands twisting in her lap.
"Edgar…" his mother whispered, her voice breaking on his name. "My son. We're sorry. We didn't believe you when you needed us most. We let fear win."
His father cleared his throat, the sound rough and shaky, like gravel in his chest. "We were wrong, son. I was wrong. I should've fought for you from the start. I should've trusted you instead of swallowing those lies from the papers and the police. If I had known the truth sooner—"
Edgar cut him off with a dry, broken laugh that echoed in the small room, sharp and empty. "Hahahaha… Is that all?" He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smile twisting his lips without a trace of joy. It was a mask, cold and hard, hiding the storm inside. "Pathetic. I thought you'd disown me again, maybe spit on me for old time's sake. Make it quick."
His father winced, pain flashing across his face like a crack in stone. "Don't say that. We came here because we still love you. We never stopped, even when we were too weak to show it."
"Love?" Edgar echoed, his voice turning sharp as a knife edge, slicing through the air. "You call what you did love? You let the world destroy me because you were too scared to stand beside me. You turned your backs and let me rot."
Lisa wiped her tears with the back of her hand, her voice trembling as she tried to push words through the sobs. "We were wrong, Edgar. We believed what everyone said because we were scared—of the shame, of losing everything else. I'm so sorry. I never stopped thinking about you, not one day. I kept your old photos, whispered your name when no one was listening."
Mark finally lifted his head, his eyes wide and pleading, voice barely above a whisper. "Brother, I told them we should visit years ago, but Dad said it'd make things worse for everyone. I wanted to write letters, to tell you I believed in you—I just… didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound empty. Please believe me. I was a kid, scared and stupid."
Edgar's eyes narrowed, gray and stormy, locking onto each of them in turn. 'Believe you?' he thought, the words burning in his mind. 'After everything?' "Believe you?" He slammed his hand on the table, the metal ringing out like a struck bell, the sound jolting them all. "Do you have any idea how much I suffered here? DO YOU FUCKING KNOW, HUH?! You think a few letters would have fixed that? Would have stopped the beatings, the nights I curled up bleeding and wishing for death?"
His mother broke then, her sobs open and wrenching, shoulders shaking as she covered her face with her hands. "We saw the news, Edgar. We saw the truth come out. I wish I could take back every day we didn't believe you, every moment we stayed silent. I pray every night for forgiveness—for you, for us. God, if I could go back…"
"Pray?" Edgar barked out another laugh, harsh and mocking, cutting her off like a whip. "You prayed while I was begging for mercy in a cell, alone in the dark! You prayed while they beat me bloody, humiliated me in ways that haunt me still, raped me until I wanted to end it all! And now you think your prayers make you family again? Make this right?"
"Please, Edgar," Lisa whispered, reaching out a hand that stopped short of the table, her voice small and desperate. "We're trying to make it right. You don't have to forgive us now—just let us try. Let us be here for you when you get out."
He shook his head, almost smiling again, but it was a bitter curve, full of shadows. "You don't get it, do you? There's no 'right' left to make. After eight years in this place, there's only one thing that kept me alive—the thought of killing every last one who ruined me. The husband who lied, the secretary who twisted the knife, and maybe even the family who looked away when I needed them most."
His father stepped forward, his face hardening with sudden grief, veins standing out on his neck. "Don't talk like that! You're not a murderer, Edgar. You're my son—strong, good-hearted. This place didn't change that."
"Your son?" Edgar spat the words like poison, leaning forward, his voice low and venomous. "You gave that up when you called me a disgrace to your face! You told the neighbors I was dead, that you didn't have a son anymore. You remember that? How it felt to say it?"
His father's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him like water from a cracked cup. "Yes," he whispered, voice cracking. "And I'll regret it until the day I die. It was cowardice, pure and simple."
Edgar laughed again, long and hollow, the sound filling the room like smoke. "Regret. That's the word everyone uses when it's already too late." He pushed back from the table, standing slowly, his chair scraping like nails on stone. He turned toward the door, the weight of their stares heavy on his back. "You came here to wash your conscience clean. Well, congratulations—you've said your sorries. Now get out of my life. For good."
Lisa cried harder, her voice breaking on a plea. "Edgar—please—don't leave like this. We still want you home. We can fix this, start over as a family."
He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle, back still turned to them. The room fell silent except for her soft sobs. "Home?" he said quietly, the word tasting like ash. "There's no home for me anymore. Just walls. Whether they're made of concrete or people—it doesn't matter. They all keep you trapped the same way."
He opened the door without looking back, stepping into the corridor. "Goodbye."
---
The guard outside stiffened as Edgar stepped past him, his body language screaming tension, like a wire pulled too tight. None of the family spoke again; the only sound left in the room was Lisa's soft sobbing and their father's uneven breathing, ragged and defeated.
Back in his cell, Edgar sat on the bunk and stared at the gray wall until the lines blurred into a hazy nothing. The apology had changed nothing—it was just words, empty as the promises that got him locked up in the first place. They had said the sorries, yes, but the years of silence, the nights of horror that clawed at his sleep, the faces that looked away when he screamed for help—those things still lived inside him, festering, unhealed.
The guard checked in later, still nervous, peeking around the door like he expected trouble. "They said they'll come again tomorrow," he offered quietly, voice low, as if sharing a secret.
Edgar didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Tell them not to. Tell them it's over. For good."
The guard nodded quickly and left, the door clicking shut behind him. The light through the window slid a little lower on the wall. Edgar lay back, eyes open, and let the silence stretch.
Freedom was coming, they said. But all he could feel was the weight of everything that couldn't be undone.