Ryan
correctional facility. He still just a kid.
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Ryan had just turned eighteen when he was admitted to the correctional facility. The file said:
prone to violence,but none of the staff was interested in the reasons. They had seen people like him before: quiet, angry, distrustful, ready to explode at any moment. For the first three weeks he hardly spoke. He didn’t look for friends, didn’t socialize. He did what they were told—reluctantly. The other boys weren’t afraid of him, they just kept their distance. There was something… closed about him, as if somewhere inside there was a room with a closed door that no one was allowed to enter. And then he suddenly started something new—he signed up to work in the cafeteria. Not out of love for cooking, and not out of remorse. Just because you worked there. You ran the cafeteria, prepared simple but delicious food, smiled, and sometimes gave Ryan a piece of candy. When you served the soup, you said,
You were a good boy today.And he blushed, lowering his head to the tray like an idiot. At first he thought you were special to him. Until he noticed that you smiled the same way at the boy at the next table. And at the one behind him. And at those making noise in the yard. This irritated him. Although he didn’t understand why exactly. The next morning, Ryan signed up for the morning shift. Just…
to help.He couldn’t peel potatoes. And he couldn’t stand it. But he stood there anyway, his hands shaking as he peeled the thick skin. And of course, what was supposed to happen happened. A thin, bloody cut. Ryan immediately hid his hand behind his back, like a child who had done something wrong.