Kiana Pourteymour

06.05.15

BEFORE THEY CATCH UP WITH ME

I remember this time when I was eight years old and
I fell off my bike into a wet ditch of mud and broken
twigs. I remember that my mouth filled with bitter crumbs
of dirt and warm blood and my face felt like I had been
punched with an iron fist. It took me an hour to scrub
all of the shit out of my gums, and so as soon as I fell
flat on my face after leaping from that ten foot prison
fence, I knew that I was going to spend the rest of my
day repeating one of the most disgusting events of my
childhood. My entire body ached from jumping from this
railing, but this time I didnt have time to lie in the
tough earth and feel sorry for myself, I had to keep
running. I ran faster than I knew how to, my legs numb
and soft but my brain miles ahead of them; running
quicker and quicker as if my life depended on it, because
it really did. If I were caught, everything Id ever
hoped for my entire life would be out of the question. I
would have to go back to living in a black and white
cubicle of cardboard bread and blended meat, wearing
orange clothes so rough my arms bled and sleeping on a
metal plank, paralysed with fear of mass murderers and
abductors. Being a fugitive may be a terrible idea, but
it is significantly better than living a life skinned of
your freedom, a life I had endured for nine years.
For my first few years in prison, all of my family
and friends thought I was insane. They could hardly look
at me, and when they did it would be with this narrow
eyed look that was a mixture of sorrow and confusion and
shame. Maybe I was crazy, all those years ago when I
forced that tiny bullet through Trevor Hardys head;
maybe I became insane after I did it. I sometimes hope I
was crazy, because it gives me a chance of ever forgiving
the unforgivable, but all I know is that when I killed
that man, my brain was an abyss of tangled and burnt
thoughts and revenge was the only thing that could save
it.
Whether I was insane or not back then, my mind
cleared up its rubble and is quieter, and the tunnel my
thoughts spring through is clearer and if there was one
thing I knew it was that I had to get out of prison. I
had to escape those metal walls, smell fresh roses,
listen to good music and drink cold beer because all I
knew was that I could not die in a place where everyones
faces are grey and lifeless and we all crave to end the
claustrophobia of spending decades and decades behind
those metaphorical bars. I remember in the eighth grade
my friend Jimmy and I made these bucket lists of ten

things we wanted to do before we died, but the idea of

this list dissolved in my memory as soon as I was
convicted. However, when the thought of escape became a
soon-to-be reality, I remembered the list; not just the
idea of it, but after a few hours of really cracking down
to it, I remembered the ten things I wanted to do before
I died. And if being an escapee would be what it took to
complete them, then so be it.
Running from the forces and screams pulling me back
into prison made my knees feel like pins had been pricked
through them and my lungs caught on fire and so when I
finally reached the end of the woods my heart floated and
a smile arose upon my face; I had made it. I found myself
on a desolate road with cracked concrete and cars
speeding past and nothing for miles but the trees that
paralleled it. I decided to strip the orange overalls
from my body so my outlaw aura was covert, and proceeded
to walk leisurely along the side of the uneven street in
my white underwear. The winter winds bit my skin and so I
pushed my combat boots behind me faster and faster with
each step. I walked for hours, and the never changing
scenery produced a lump in my throat as I feared this
wasnt a good decision. Time passed slower than I had
ever witnessed, I was bored and cold and my feet were
destroyed with blisters and I longed to take a warm
shower. It was brutal, until I started to see the trees
unfold and as dusk drew near and the sun faded, I began
to see red and white city lights peering between black
skyscrapers in the distance; and the sound of car horns
filled the air. For the first time in nine years, I saw
something that made my life worth living, thousands in
unison finishing their days, happy and liberated. As I
edged closer and closer to the outskirts of Nashville, I
felt tears soak my water lines and I laughed, loud and
deep, and I stopped feeling the cold air but instead felt
the warmth of an entire city holding me and I could
already hear the country music dancing from the bars into
my ears, and I was home.
With the twenty dollars I had hidden in my shoe
before escaping, I bought some sweats and a night in a
scruffy motel room with yellow sheets and cold shower
water. It was no five star luxury, but compared to prison
it was pretty great. I slept thirteen hours while Garth
Brooks melodies played on the rusty radio and I woke up
to a cold breeze pulling my sheets from my bony fingers.
However, an even colder feeling resonated through my
bones when I realised that the cops could show up at any
minute. I was the bait they craved, a wanted fugitive
they could lock up to gain a heroic title, and I was not

going to let that happen. They couldnt catch me, not

before I lived; inhaled the urban scent and let it wash
over my skin. I had to complete my bucket list, and to at
least live before they caught up with me.
When I was still in prison and managed to scavenge
the ten things on my list from the corners of my brain, I
scratched them down on a piece of paper that I put in my
shoe, and so before getting dressed in my sweats that
next day, I found it and lay the crumpled up list on the
bed in front of me. I examined the ten things my thirteen
year old self had wanted to do before I died
The phone rang seven times before Jimmy picked up,
and when he did, I hardly recognized his voice. That
high- pitched Texan accent I once knew back in middle
school had evolved into a deep drawl, and, as usual, I
felt nostalgic for the huge chunk of my life I had
missed. Jimmy and I had lost touch after middle school,
but I was not surprised when he told me he knew about my
conviction- everyone knew. He didnt seem scared to talk
to me, and when I told him about my plan to complete my
dreams, he laughed this familiar and innocent laugh that
reassured me I was making the right decision in asking
for his assistance.
I need your help with my plan, though, I told
Jimmy after about ten minutes of catching up.
Anything.
I need to borrow your boat.
I was pretty much fearless growing up; heights,
death, animals; none of it phased me, but the one thing I
hated was boats. It wasnt the sea that I didnt like,
because I loved the beach. But as soon as I was sat in a
boat that veered any more that fifty yards away from the
shore, I was terrified. I hated the idea of not knowing
what was below me; the black abyss of uncertainty. And
so, when Jimmy and I sat on that park bench and wrote our
lists that summers day in middle school, I knew I had to
face my fears, and drive a boat. Looking back on it
fourteen years later, I regretted adding that idea to my
list, but I wasnt going to change it, I was going to
face my fears.
The harbour was full of sailboats and yachts sitting
on the glass ocean, and as I stared at Jimmys puny
motorboat a sensation of intimidation washed over me.
There was no way I could drive it; boats scared the shit
out of me and the idea of attempting to have control over
one made me feel sick. The motorboat was painted scarlet
all over and had white cushion seats and a huge black

wheel, and as I unsteadily climbed into the drivers seat

I could hear Jimmy grin behind me; his goofy, almost
mocking smile. It was a beautiful thing to be back with
Jimmy, and the way he treated me more like a brother than
an outlaw was a taste a relief, something I hadnt felt
for years. He had hardly changed; still stocky; blue eyed
Jimmy with a contagious sense of humor. When he turned on
the engine and instructed me how to back out of the
harbour, I swear my heart was in my mouth. Magnetic
forces in my skin were pulling me back to the harbour,
but my brain was determined; I had to complete my list,
and I couldnt do that unless I drove this little red
boat.
The first few minutes in the boat were reasonably
calm. I had driven to an opening where the mountains gave
way to endless blue miles. Jimmy was reassuring me the
entire time; teaching me what to do and telling me I was
doing great, and my ribs were just starting to loosen,
until we sped up. The roar of the boat let me know that
it was happening; we were ready to start flying through
the waves, and thats exactly what we did. As we sped
faster and faster, my hair flew out of my face and icy
breezes slapped me, and we soared through the white foam
and into the blue pool. My heart was in my mouth but the
fearful paralysis turned into a sensation of awe, at the
blue sky; at the mysteriously wonderful ocean; at the
feeling of freedom and the lightness of my bones. Jimmy
screamed and laughed and patted me on the back, and we
were back in eighth grade again when we lit our first
fire, that feeling of accomplishment and ecstacy, the
shared bliss between two simple people experiencing
something incredible for the very first time.
I spent a few nights with Jimmy after that day on
the boat. We drank golden beer, listened to Garth, played
some guitar by the fire in Jimmys yard, and he told me
about college while I shared prison horror stories. We
laughed about the bridges we had burnt and he teased
about how he always thought hed be the one to end up
behind bars. I completed my second task at Jimmys, too.
This one night when wed drank about eight too many
beers, I decided it was time to do the thing Id always
wanted to do; streak. I was aware that it was an unlikely
thing to do at twenty seven years old, but our twirling
minds didnt care, and we ran out to the rugby field near
his house with two Coronas each, and ripped off our
clothes. As our blood began to freeze, we started to
bolt, faster than our legs could carry us, warming our
bodies with the sweat that poured from us. We crossed the
field and through the trees with only the stars to guide

us, until we came to a huge hill, which we forced

ourselves upon. And then we were there, at the top of a
hill, looking out upon all of Nashville, naked. Our teeth
chattered and our blue lips turned to stone but we just
let our mouths turn up at the corners and laughed, a deep
laugh coming from the pits of our souls and pulling tears
from our eyes, and we let the entire city see our raw
bodies.
My mother always wanted to come to ruby falls. I
told Jimmy. She wanted to stand in this very spot and
watch the water and the endless colours and feel the
saltwater ribbon through her nostrils. It was like, her
one dream, and when she died last year all I could think
about was that she would never be able to stand here, in
this pink and purple magical cave, feeling the cool, wet
air thick on her skin and listening to the war rocket
from the top of the cave right down to the bottom, and
tasting the magic. When I wrote this on my bucket list, I
wanted my mother to be standing here right beside me, and
I swear to God she might be watching me from one of those
water crystals.
Standing in Ruby Falls was like standing inside your
lovers eye. The water plummeting down to the centre of
the cave was like light penetrating the cornea, and the
water crystals resembled the diamonds in the eyes of
your favorite person. When I told Jimmy this theory, he
stared at me with soft eyes and I felt a lump in my
throat and warm hands on my heart when he told me maybe
youre in your mothers eyes.
I week had gone by since Id broken out from prison,
and when I realised that I hadnt heard anything from the
cops, my veins loosened.
Maybe they decided to let you go? Jimmy teased and
we laughed whilst filling our throats with salty fries.
We were sitting on his black marshmallow couch and
watching ice hockey on the tiny black screen halfway
across his living room, but about ten minutes into the
game, the hockey became more like background noise fading
into our casual conversations. I strummed at Jimmys
guitar, these three same notes in the same pattern, over
and over again to the point that these three notes were
engraved in my brain, and I was tranquil.
I was halfway through my bucket list on this day,
after the boat driving, streaking, and ruby falls visit
which were closely followed by two more tasks. The first
was a blood boiling visit to a theme park to ride my
first rollercoaster. Rollercoasters terrified me; they

made my heart fall from my lips and made my thumbs bleed

from my fingers picking at them, but just like driving a
boat, I did what Id promised my post adolescent self and
managed to enjoy letting my bones break from a possessive
piece of machinery.
The fifth of my first five tasks involved me
applying and working at the caf five minutes from
Jimmys house. I had always wanted to work a paid job,
and besides working on my fathers farm in the summer of
my Junior year, I had never worked a paid day in my life.
The caf didnt pay a dollar over minimum wage, but I
didnt care, I was doing it for the experience of working
for your gains. Besides, I was living off of Jimmy to the
point he had to buy my lunches, and so I felt as though I
owed it to him to pay for at least some of my temporary
assets. My boss didnt ask for any recommendations much
to my luck because all though he was desperate for new
waiters, a sixty year old ex-priest did not seem like the
kind of guy willing to harbour a fugitive. He was kind
though, warm and reassuring because we both knew that I
sucked at waiting tables.
That afternoon, with Jimmy and the ice hockey, was
one of the calmest, blissful afternoons I had had in a
while. It was soft cushions and hot coffee and simplicity
in the greatest way. That was, until the knock at the
door, that urgent and heavy knock that you knew was
bringing bad news in its knuckles. I did what I had
always done when someone was at the door since I had
escaped, I hid in the cupboard under Jimmys sink,
shaking the kitchen with fear. I could hear a muffled
deep voice through the cupboard door; I heard stomping
feet getting louder and louder, and I heard my name;
Wilson Park, and I knew it was all over from there. Tears
stung my eyes as I feared the walk of shame back into the
prison cell, looking into knifes of eyes and sleeping
with my heart in my mouth, eating what was pretty much
bricks and vomit and the worst part; the separation from
the freedom I had worked so hard to regain. I tried not
to explode into sobs when I heard the door slam, and
seconds later felt cool air as Jimmy swung open the
cupboard doors and enveloped me into his arms; I was
safe.
Jimmy told me what the cops wanted on our way to
Rock City that evening. They had come looking for me, but
he told them he had no idea where I was, and that if I
had escaped, I would have come to him, and so I had most
likely offed myself or something. One thing I loved about
Jimmy was that he was incredible at making up excuses and
lies on the spot, and so having him as my harbor while I

completed my life dreams was a blessing and one hell of

an idea. Jimmy and I drove to the beautiful Tennessee
landmark of Rock City, a place we had dreamed of camping
at since we were thirteen and made it to both of our
bucket lists. We could have stayed in the cabins and
experienced a night of fillet steak, red wine and crisp
sheets but we opted for a two-man tent as we neither
wanted to nor had the money to sleep in luxurious
accomodation, and minimalism was mine and Jimmys second
nature.
We pitched our tent on one of the ledges of the
waterfall cliff, a spot that looked out upon a green
blanket that stretched over the horizon. The fresh smell
of exotic flowers and clean oxygen wafted through our
nostrils and as we sat beside our tent on cracked logs
and looked over the view, I couldnt help but wonder if
this would be one of my last days of peace.
Any minute now they could find me, I looked over
at Jimmy as I spoke, who was fixated on the colony of
sheep migrating towards the waterfall below us.
They look so united, you know. Jimmy ceased to
take his eyes off the sheep. Sheep are just like us, in
a sense. They live in groups, and eat and drink and
reproduce and communicate but theyre so united. Thats
the difference between us people and wild animals; us
humans, were full of betrayal. Maybe its because we have
the means of transport and technology and shit to just
ignore people or just run away, but I feel like animals
are just so much simpler than us. Like honestly, Im real
jealous of those sheep. Theyve got all those other
people in their lives and me? Well Ive got you, buddy,
and a few acquaintances I meet in bars every now and
again but you know when the dust settles youre probably
not gonna be out of the cell forever and when youre gone
Im gonna be a lonesome beer drinker. And I guess what
Im trying to say is that humans are complicated
creatures and if I was a sheep, man my only issue would
be that period in the summer before I get all my wool
shaven off.
Are you not aware of the slaughterhouse system? I
tried not to laugh because I knew what Jimmy was trying
to say was hurting him.
Thats not the point, Wilson. Jimmy was also
holding back a smile as he took a huge swig from his
beer. I mean when youre gone, Ill have to go back to
my futile life sleeping through the day and taking
discursive walks under the moon. Ill pretend to read the
paper every morning when in reality Ill just let my eyes
fixate on the heading and Ill skim the text but none of
the letters will make it to my brain. After that, Ill
spike my coffee with gin and lay on the couch drinking

the cold concoction, watching TV until my eyes bleed and

Ill think of you. Ill think of how shitty prison must
be and how glad I am not to be behind bars, but even
thought my life may seem luxurious to you, in reality
its as cold and lonely as that of a seventy year old
widow in a care home. Ill think of these weeks we spent
together, doing all this eccentric, without a doubt oncein-a-lifetime shit and reminiscing on our middle school
days. And Ill think of the day, some time in the future,
maybe when youre like eighty or something, when they
release you from the cell, and youll be free at last.
Ill think of you walking out of lockup with your head
held high and that animated smile on your face. And the
thought of that will make me smile for you.
I looked over at Jimmy who still had his eyes on the view
but the blue had been poured out of them and instead he
looked lost and empty.
What youre saying about the sheep, I get it. I
mean, when we were eight our biggest worry was whether or
not wed get the back seat on the school bus or if we won
our football game at recess. You know, I miss having soft
skin that wasnt destroyed from prison overalls and
drawing pictures of dinosaurs and drinking from juice
boxes. I miss Thanksgiving with my family and my little
sister and eating hot turkey with cranberry sauce; I miss
when loneliness wasnt an option because we were like
sheep, we were forced to be together back in grade school
and walk in a group, and always have each others back. I
miss all this insignificant crap so much it tears me
apart. We used to be so bright-eyed and our brains were
fire and now were two lonely guys in our mid twenties,
but the difference between the two of us is Im a
murderer when youre just a guy who went through shit he
didnt deserve and fell for a bunch of heartless women. I
deserve this life. You dont.
The sun set over the horizon and folded behind the
Earth and as the stars appeared, Jimmy and I just lay
there, savoring our rations of simplicity, reminiscing
and letting our nostalgia flood over our cold skin. Maybe
things wouldnt always be okay, but at that moment,
things were great, and they would be until I met my
deserved fate, the fate I deserved ever since I put that
bullet through Trevor Hardys head.
I woke up to a piercing scream coming from what I
guessed was fifty feet away. My torso bounced off my
sleeping mat and I unzipped it to reveal bright stars
lost in stretches of blackness. I guessed it was about
three am, judging by the blood freezing air that bit my
skin and snapped my veins. The air was now silent, with

only the whispering winds and innocent crickets to be

heard. I stayed with my head out of the tent and looked
around, determined to find the source of the sound, until
I heard it again, louder than before but just as
menacing, and at that I heaved myself from the tent and
stood on a grassy patch near the backdrop of rows of
trees. I slowly walked around the huddle of trees I stood
among, struggling to find my way with only the stars to
illuminate my path, until I saw a shadow in the distance
running. I couldnt tell who it was but they were running
fast and towards the direction of our tent, where Jimmy
was laying fast asleep. I wasnt sure if this was the
screamer or the person who evoked the scream, but whoever
it was would not be intruding in our space. I quickly
jogged over to the tent and grabbed the kitchen knife we
had used to carve the fish we brought camping, and
secured it into my back pocket, before running towards
the shadow. I ran, ready to attack whoever the hell this
person was, to destroy them and give them what they had
deserved for even thinking of harming us- how dare they!
My legs were jelly and my lungs were weak but I ran with
the knife in the back of my pocket, high off the
adrenalin in my blood and my footprints in the dirt. I
was closer to this shadow, which was continually weaving
in and out of trees, but my eyes fixated on the moving
blackness and my teeth were gritted and my bones strong.
My brain hadnt felt so tangled since the Trevor Hardy
case; it was drowning in determination and self-defence
and at that moment, all I could think of was how I wanted
to kill him, to kill someone, to let out all this burning
anger inside me, all this numbness in my bones, just to
set it free with a single stab of a knife. It was one
man, and I was already sentenced to life in jail so who
the hell cared if I ended his life. I approached him,
closer and closer, and pounced, falling on top of him,
feeling his bones crush beneath me and as he gasped for
air and I pulled the knife from my back pocket, I looked
down into the face of the man I was currently straddling,
a black-haired gaunt man who was my ideal bait. I swung
the knife from behind me and softened it onto the skin of
his neck, and was just about to cut when I felt a hand
pulling me back and onto the ground, and I looked up to
see Jimmy.
I dont really remember walking back to the tent
that night. I remember staring up at the roof of the tent
while Jimmy snored beside me, wondering if the insanity
had ever left my skin. Id never been in love, nor did I
ever think I would be, but I did experience heartbreak;
that very night in the tent when I realized that all that

time I had thought my psychotic behavior was just a phase

was utter shit, and that I had always been crazy,
sometimes the insanity lived in the depths of my lungs
and sometimes it was right in my corneas as my wild-eyed
self with guns and knives thought murder was the right
thing to do when youre angry.
The next few days Jimmy and I didnt speak much. My
brittle self sat on his couch, played guitar, ate cheese
strings and drank pineapple juice but our interactions
were sparse. When we did talk, however, we fought, and
Jimmy was pissed off, but the one thing he never did was
told me I was crazy. He told me I needed help, but he
never used the word crazy, and that was enough for me to
believe he would get over the terror I put him through
that night by running away and attempting to murder a
man. Insane or not, I was not myself that night, I was
back to my nineteen year old self and the anger that I
was certain I had left behind was still in me. It took
Jimmy and I about a week to get back to normal, but
normal we were; thats the thing about Jimmy, he forgives
those he loves, and he trusts, more than anyone Ive ever
known. Maybe thats why people fucked him up so much.
A week after the incident at Rock City, I decided to
continue to complete my bucket list. This was my one shot
to do it, and I wasnt going to let an explosion of
bottled up anger one night ruin it.
Jimmy flew me to Nevada that next week. I used my
fake ID from my junior year in high school, which was
under the name Lionel Johnston, to take the flight
because using my name would be leaving a trail of my
identity, something I couldnt do if I was bound to
escape getting caught. It was hard to pass for a nineteen
year old, but with a cropped haircut and fresh shave I at
least made myself a believable teen. I would get in shit
for flying across state with a fake identity, but, come
on, it wouldnt have been the first time I broke the law.
We landed in Vegas at nine at night, and pre-booked
at 3- star hotel right in the center of the city. As we
drove towards the hotel, I watched the city lights fly
past the cab window. Like Nashville, Vegas was colour, it
was swimming in electricity and extravagant buildings;
buildings that touched the sky, round buildings, Greek
buildings. Vegas was music and screams and money; casinos
and shots and extravagance; the air was screaming alcohol
and wild youth. It was a haven, an escape from my past,
because as much as I adored Nashville, it tasted like
everything Id done and all that Id lost.

Why Vegas? Well, growing up, hearing all the

unbelievably wild stories that city held, I had always
wanted to go, and so the visit was written on my bucket
list in gold ink. Below it, I had wrote marry, and
get a tattoo. What better place to do those things than
in Vegas?
My first day in Vegas, I took a fifteen minute cab
to the tattoo parlor, with Jimmy in the backseat.
Get something stupid, he kept saying with this
cheesy grin on his face. So I did the complete opposite.
I got something I wouldnt regret, something to remind me
of my temporary haven; my weeks at Jimmys, and I got a
tattoo of a sheep. I got this tattoo right on my left
breastbone; the sheep was in navy ink and had a big
number 10 in the middle of it, to stand for the 10 goals
on my bucket list. I was so proud of this tattoo and all
the sentimental value that lived in the ink; I was so
proud I went back to the hotel shirtless, and as we sat
on the bed talking, I couldnt help but admire it in the
mirror.
It looks pretty cool doesnt it? I dont know why I
didnt do this earlier! Tattoos are like, the best thing
there is, I said, fixated on the blue design on my peck.
Alright Wilson. Now who the hell are you going to
marry?
I drank more shots than there were stars in the sky
that night, and Jimmy drank double that. I was red eyed
and wet-clothed and steps were blurry, and so waking up
realizing I had married Lionel Johnston, the fucking fake
person from my fake ID, was a surprise to say the least.
Jimmy and I laughed the whole next day, we laughed the
hangovers out of ourselves, but I was married, and I was
two tasks away from the end of my bucket list.
It wasnt until we were back in Nashville two days
later, sitting on Jimmys couch eating potato chips when
the surreal extremity of that kicked in.
Its almost over. I stared at a slightly deformed
potato chip in my left hand as the monotone words slipped
out of my lips. Ive almost completed my bucket list,
and what then? Do I turn myself in? Do I just keep living
life until they catch up with me? You know, only now do I
realize how much shit Im going to be in. I mean, theyre
probably going to put me under maximum security. I will
probably live the rest of my days in a box eating food
that makes regular prison food taste like a five star
meal and sleeping on concrete until my spine crumbles.
Dont get me wrong, I dont regret my time in this real
world, but my life after this is going to be even worse

than it was before. I mean, its not like I can go into

hiding; where the hell would I go?
I looked over at Jimmy, who, like I was, was staring
into blank space, his wild eyes fading and his skin pale.
Its not definite that youll get caught, and if
you do? Look, how many guys look in the mirror and call
themselves a fugitive? It may seem like its not a word
everyone wants to title themselves with, but boy that
word has courage in it. It takes pure courage to hop the
fence of a prison, it takes courage to face and admit to
what youve done and my God it takes courage to walk
around the streets of Nashville after nine years in
prison, and to act completely normal, and to try and
forget
I looked myself in the mirror, squeezing the
telephone in my huge hands and took a deep breath, as I
heard the beep on the other end of the line.
Its Janie Park, who is this?
Hearing that sweet, sweet voice made me burst into
tears. I cried for those nine years that my innocent,
beautiful sister and I could have spent together, I cried
for the times she never visited me because she couldnt
deal with the feeling she got when she saw her role model
in an orange jumpsuit, I cried for her husband, Avery,
that I would probably never meet, I cried for her soft
skin and blonde hair and her candy-like smell and those
walks we used to take at dusk and the midnight drives. I
cried for the times I couldnt be there for her, for the
pain I put her through, and most of all I cried for the
thought of how shed react when she knew it was me, I
cried because she could hate me or she could love me but
I didnt care because I was hearing her angelic little
voice.
Hello? Janie asked again.
Janie. Its your brother.
She laughed, and Janies laugh was one I never
forgot; it was passion and raw happiness, it was one of
those laughs that came right from the soul, and it made
you feel blessed that you were the reason for it. The
relief when I realized she was happy to hear from me
untangled my veins and left stars in them, and my heart
felt light and tears rolled from my eyes and I smiled,
and I laughed too.
Alright Wilson, now tell me, how the hell are you
out of prison?
I explained everything to her. I told her about the
hell that was prison, and the bucket list and the fence-

hopping and the streaking and Ruby Falls; I told her

every detail and she told me she was proud of me for
following my dreams, and that I had courage. Courage was
something that people had been telling me I had a lot of
lately. I always thought that the man who escapes from
prison is the one who had a lack of courage, but I guess
it did take a certain bravery to try and live a life of a
human when I had been forced to live as an animal.
Why did I call Janie? After that talk with Jimmy the
day before, I wanted to see her one last time, until my
last shreds of freedom were stripped from me and I was
forced to meet my fate of spending the rest of my life in
a confined space with no visitors. Also, my final two
tasks, the two hardest but greatest, required her.
Growing up, I never had a father. He was alive, but
not in my life; all I knew about him was that he met my
mother in college and they had me before marrying and
having my sister two years later. My father then left
when Janie was one and I was three, and so neither of us
remember him. All I knew was that he was a 64 carpenter
with eyes the colour of Uranus. My mother never spoke
about him; all she said was he left our lives so we must
lock the door. But she still kept a picture of the two
of them at a college football match by her bed, so I
guess he was never out of her life for good. One thing I
wrote on my bucket list all those years ago was that I
wanted to meet my dad, and I knew that since my mothers
death last year, the only way I could do that would be
through my sister.
I invited Janie to Jimmys a few days after our
phone call. Jimmy went out fishing that day so we could
be alone to catch up and spend some time together. I was
so damn nervous when I heard a knock on the door at three
in the evening, and when I pulled it open I saw my little
sister in this beautiful periwinkle dress and black
cotton tights. Her dress matched her blue eyes and I
stared into them while enveloping her into my arms. She
had that exact same smell of cotton candy that she always
used to have in high school, and as I inhaled it, I
kissed the top of her blonde hair.
You not visiting me, Janie. It broke my heart. I
was so damn lonely in there. I literally had no one,
especially after mom died. The wardens would tell me I
had a visitor, and every time Id cross my fingers behind
my back and Id pray for you, but it was always, every
fucking time, my obnoxious chain-smoking lawyer. It was
never you.

I never told you this, Janie said as she sipped

her de-caffeinated coffee (she didnt need caffeine, she
was high off her personal euphoria) But all I wanted,
all those years in prison, were to see you. I wanted to
hug you so bad, to tell you how sorry I was that you were
locked up when all you ever did was try to protect me. I
guess I always blamed myself for what happened to you,
and thats why I couldnt bear to see you like that, in
there.
It wasnt your fault, Janie. You didnt kill him, I
did.
When I told you about what he did to me, I never
expected you would do what you did. But when I told you,
I saw this anger in your eyes. I saw so much pain, and I
saw the fire inside of you had burning out, I didnt know
what youd do. But I never thought you would kill him.
Why did you kill him, Wilson? She started to cry, and
for the first time I saw the strongest person I knew
crumble in her skin. She started to scream at me, You
used to be so fucking innocent. You were the most likely
to succeed, Im pretty sure NASA would have paid millions
for you to work for them, you had everything going for
you and you threw it away for me. You were the fucking
designated driver, the virgin until senior year, the
pretty boy with the insanely advanced brain so how the
hell does someone like you turn into a criminal?
The way I saw Janie that day was a way I had never
seen her, and it suddenly made me think that me being in
prison had not just destroyed me, but had tore pieces
from others, too. And realizing that, after everything
that had happened, brought me the most guilt I had ever
known.
Janie and I sat on Jimmys porch steps as the sun
set over the horizon and the sky had these pinks stripes
through its blue. Here, as we sipped on cider and ate
cheesy pasta, I brought up our dad.
Janie, I need a favor. I have two things on my
bucket list left, and I need you for both. But something
you should know is that theyre both far-fetched and on
the verge of impossibility and so if theyre
unachievable, please let me know.
What are they? Janie looked at my as she munched
on her last piece of pasta.
I want to meet our father, Janie. Thats the first
one, possibly the harder but the most important. Its
something Ive wanted for as long as I can remember and
all I know is that I have to meet him, because we both
know that I have little time left and this is my last

opportunity to meet him. So please, can you help me with

this?
Okay. Janie took a huge swig of cider and looked
up with me with her glossy blue eyes.
It was a cold morning and the wind bit my nose and
my blue lips. I couldnt tell if my legs were shaking
from the cold or from the nerves that came with meeting
the man who had left me when I was three, the man who
loved and left my mother, and the man who I should have
had to look up to, but instead remained a missing piece
in the jigsaw puzzle that was my life. The private
investigator had set up a date at a coffee shop in
Nashville after locating our father in Louisville and
calling him. It was strange to thing how close he had
been all these years, yet so distant.
I sat down next to Janie in the remote wooden caf
and ordered black coffee. I stirred some milk into it and
watched the white swirl into the black abyss and spread
out to create a happy medium; a tan colour. I was
engrossed in the hypnotizing fluid when I heard the caf
door slam shut, and standing by it, a 64 blue eyed male
with pale complexion and dirty blond hair. I knew it was
him.
Dads eyes were exactly like Janies. The same pale
blue with swirls of cobalt that pulled whoever looked
into them into the soul. I like to think I got my dads
hair. He had the same thick blonde locks that I had and I
noticed he did the same thing that I did when I took my
hair in my left hand and ran my fingers through the few
inches there were of it. After he had approached us he
just stood there, staring down at us, and hugged us one
at a time, and his lips were quivering and his blue eyes
now wet with tears and he just smiled, this proud,
fatherly smile that filled that jigsaw piece I had been
missing my whole life.
Dad let us call him Dad, and I hope he knew how
happy that made us. We told him everything we could, our
talents, our favourite foods, Janie described her
husband, Avery, and I, well I spoke about the life of an
outlaw. And we told him how great of a life mom had, and
that she would have loved to see him one last time, at
which he said,
I saw her. Before she died, her college friend,
Laura, came in contact with me and told me your mother
was terminal. She had weeksand so I got to the hospital
she was at as fast as I could, because I had to. Finding
out she was terminal made me realize it; I had messed up

real bad leaving her, but I mean I was a wreck back then;
I couldnt handle kids any more than I could handle my
fragile self. So I saw your mother in that hospital bed,
pale and withering, and I apologized, and told her I
loved her, and that was that. I wanted to see you both
too, but I thought it would be selfish to burden you with
the weights of a new- found father while you were dealing
with the death of your mother. I would see you one day, I
swore to myself. And when I found out you wanted to see
me, it was like all my prayers had been answered, because
who knew the light you both saw me in growing up. Your
mother had every right to paint me in the darkest one.
We worshiped the idea of you, growing up. I told
him. All we ever wanted was to see you, to meet you, to
know you.
When I left, as I said, I wasnt myself. I was
angry at myself for not being the father you deserved,
and so I left. And I regretted it ever since. I missed
your childhoods, and thats unforgivable, but I want to
know you now. If youll let me, being a part of your
lives would be the greatest honor for me.
We spent four hours in that caf. The sun searched
the solar system and found our earth to warm us up as the
afternoon drew near and we sipped our hot coffee. We all
kept our eyes glued to each other; we were fixated and
enamored with the thought that we were almost a family.
If only my wonderful mother could have spent this
glorious afternoon with us. I told Dad about my bucket
list, and he laughed (I think we have the same laugh!)
and told me he used to have a bucket list, and that he
was honored to be a part of mine. He asked me what my
last task was, at which I started to explain.
I wouldnt say Im a musician, but I dont suck.
And one thing Ive always wanted to do was perform at the
Grand Ole Opry- and I know what youre thinking. Its
impossible to perform there unless youre some kind of
legend in Country Music, but you know when I was thirteen
and writing my list that didnt seem to be a factor in my
brain. And I mean, its written in ink on my bucket list
so I guess I have to do it. Do either of you know someone
who might work there? Janie, I know Avery works in music
so I figured you could know someone who could get me a
slot, but Dad, do you know anyone either?
Janie smiled. Avery knows the manager of the
performers at the Opry. I could probably get you a slot.
It had been a month since I had left prison, and
spring was drawing near. The air was thickening and

Nashvilles spirits were brighter, and since I had met my

dad, mine were too. Since that day in the caf, Dad came
to Jimmys almost every day. We would play the guitar and
drink cool beer and listen to Garth; he loved Garth
Brooks the same way I did. Maybe I got that from him.
I also spent a ton of time with Janie, and she flew
Avery in from Florida to meet me and to attend my debut
at the Opry, the performance he had secured for me (and I
thanked him, more than I did anything else). The day I
met him was a beautiful one; the first day of Spring and
one of bright eyes and joyous handshakes. Janie brought
him to Jimmys that morning, and we spent the whole day
on the porch playing guitar and talking about Janie. I
asked him about 200 questions, and found out he was a
music producer who grew up in Georgia and served in the
army for four years. He was older than Janie by what I
guessed was five years, but had one of those baby-like
faces with soft features and swallowing eyes. And I
trusted him with my little sister; I had one of those
feelings in my gut, deep in the corners of my skin that
if anything were to happen with me, little Janie would be
in great hands with Avery.
The night of my Opry performance was the greatest
night of my life. Before the performance, I just
meandered discursively through Music Row, with my eyes
fixated on the setting sun beyond the buildings. Music
Row was a street of colour; infinite impeccable red brick
bars lined the street, each with flashing signs that
competed with each other to capture the passerby on the
street with the melodies and sweet voices of aspiring
performers. It was such an extravagantly beautiful street
resided by so many humble people, it was a place where
simplicity met extravagance and as I walked along the
avenue I felt blessed to be able to have grown up and
lived in this town. The only thing I would change, was to
snap my fingers and no longer be an outlaw, but be a
regular, simple civilian, so I could spend more years
soaking up and creating music in every musicians dream
town. But I wasnt- I was a criminal, so instead of
having the rest of my life, I had one night to fill my
bones with Nashvilles enchantment, and so I had to make
sure I did a hell of a good job.
The Grand Ole Opry was a magnificently modest
wooden building that was geometrically perfect from the
outside, and though short, stretched wide. The hallways
were of low ceilings and more wood I had ever seen,
polished oak walls and floors. Doors filled the
corridors; and imitated that on a barn, and the sparse
windows gave a confined feeling to the place. In short,

backstage area reflected the humble countryside of

Tennessee. The walls were covered, however, with
thousands of black-and-white photographs of country music
legends, from Johnny Cash to Eric Church, everyone and
anyone who had performed at the Opry. I was nobody
compared to them; illegality in a six foot blonde
container. But tonight I would be like them. Maybe I
wasnt the best performer, but thanks to my incredible
connections in high places, it didnt really matter as
long as I made sure everyone had a good time, right?
Five minutes before my queue, I stood, rigid, with
my guitar in hand, in front of my dressing room mirror. I
was wearing the most wonderful glistening suit; coal in
colour with a scarlet, ironed shirt and a tie. My beard
was freshly shaven but I left my hair long and it fell
down my temples down to my ears. I looked pretty damn
good; trimmed and smart but still the same Wilson Park,
only with less facial hair and smelling like apricot
leather. I was about to walk into one of the most freeing
experiences of all, something I had dreamed of since I
was eight and strumming Garth on my quarter sized guitar
in my bedroom, back when in my world of tiny fingers and
chicken nuggets and before I turned from a robin to a
jailbird. One thing I knew about this performance, was
that it was going to be nothing but honesty and raw
music. Thats what the Oprys all about, its about
genuine passion; just you and your guitar looking out
unto an ocean of those who love music the way you do.
The crimson curtains opened slowly and with it came
thousands of brilliant white lights that shone on my
face. My body was warmed by both the stage lights and the
euphoria I obtained from the screams and joyous faces of
the audience. The entire audience were on their feet,
clapping, laughing and excited as hell to see this
mysterious performer. For some bizarre reason, I wasnt
nervous. Maybe I was because I wasnt exactly a
professional performer so regarding my music career, if I
messed up I didnt have much to lose; maybe it was
because I had experienced true fear in my time behind
bars so a performance couldnt make a bone flinch.
Whatever it was, I felt at peace, with myself and with my
audience, and so I took a deep breath into my steady
lungs and started to strum, and to smile, and to sing.
I sang five songs during my Opry performance. None
of them were original, because I figured since my pitchy
Southern drawl wasnt exactly the voice of an angel, I
should at least entertain the audience with some
classics. One of the songs, by Merle Haggard tells a
story about a fugitive who finds himself aimlessly

wandering with no destination due to his escape. Before I

sang that song, I told the audience that it was a song
that I relate a lot to; one that means a lot to me due to
my current situation, but as I went on with the melody, I
realized I owed my audience an explanation. So, after the
song drew to the close, I cleared my throat, and while
finger picking a few high notes on my guitar, I told my
story into the microphone. As I spoke, I remembered the
honesty I recalled in the dressing room, the honesty I
knew I needed to hold in my bones.
There are things in life that you cannot forgive.
Things you do that are so brutally dark and sinister that
there are almost no ways you can forgive your own mind
for doing it. But you can learn to accept what you have
done, and try to move on from it. I have learnt this
after nine years in prison for manslaughter followed by a
badass escape. I could hear gasps and saw concerned
audience members exchange glances of horror, of
confusion.
I was a fugitive; I am a fugitive; but not just
from prison; I spent so much time trying to be a fugitive
from my own mind that I eventually realized a few years
into my sentence that I needed to accept what I did, even
if I didnt fully forgive myself for it. People look at
me differently when they find out I am an outlaw, which
made it hard to move on. Thats one of the things that
come with being a prisoner; your past always haunts you
when people realize who you are. Dont let your past
haunt you; come to peace with it, and you will live the
longest life you can. Thank you to all of you for coming
here tonight; I finished my final dream.
I finished by singing A Life Thats Good, a
beautiful, nostalgia evoking ballad, and as I sang, I
looked out upon the crowd; the hundreds of people all
staring into my eyes and swaying. I felt like all the
stars were watching me, shining on me and making me glow.
I was singing from my soul, and engraving the words on
the hearts of those who watched me, and for the first
time I felt normal, and I forgot for a moment that I was
a criminal running from the law but instead felt like a
regular person; better than regular, these people were
making me feel like I had some divine importance in my
voice, and they didnt care that I was an outlaw. They
stamped the corroboration of the trust they had in me
through their sweet smiles, and for that I thank them;
that I could spend my last task knowing that I was
normal, and I was seen as normal. The song was ending,
and I glanced to the right to see Avery, Jimmy, Janie,
and my Dad backstage, looking proud, nodding and
laughing, and each of them warming my heart with their
familiar eyes.

My shift finished at ten in the evening, and I waved

goodbye to my fellow audience, who, by the end of the
last song, I considered my friends. I was greeted with
back-pats by huge hands and grins and flash photography
and my adrenalin shot through my arteries like lightning.
Microphones were pressed to my lips, huddles of men in
plastic suits in the corridors unfolded and approached
me. I paced through the corridor towards the back door; I
needed to get some fresh air. My thoughts weaved in and
out of each other and questions buzzed through my mind.
My bucket list was complete, my purpose to live out of
the cell I deserved to live in was dissolved; should I
turn myself in? The audience already knew I was a
prisoner, I had to get out of Nashville, out of Tennessee
if I wanted to remain free. My palms were clammy and my
cheeks were hot, and so when I stepped outside into the
cool night air, I was relieved. The moon shone down on my
nose and the air cooled my skin that my clothes had stuck
to. I couldnt go back in the building; as much as I had
loved my performance and affection, all the questions
about my future grabbed my brain with two huge hands and
threw it to my feet. Suddenly, a yellow cab veered in
front of us, its white lights washing over my face, and,
without thinking, I opened the back door and heaved
myself in.
Where to? The cab driver looked at me, confused by
my anxious and sweat-covered state.
Umm I had no idea. Rock City.
My legs were shaking and my knees were locked when
I got out of the cab. The altitude up on the waterfall
cliff numbed my fingers and painted my lips blue. The cab
had parked right where Jimmy and I had pitched up our
tent a few weeks earlier, so my walk to the viewing point
at the edge of the fifty foot cliff, the same place Jimmy
had made his analytical sheep statements, was short. I
stood on the edge of the precipice and peered down, my
mind still spinning with confusion and anxiety, but only
headed in the direction of the fact that I needed to get
away. I would either get turned in or have to turn myself
in, unless I wanted to flee the country, but even then I
would live a life of fear of getting caught and sent back
to prison. I knew what was the right thing to do at that
moment, with the adrenalin floating through my muscles
and my dizzy brain. I looked over the edge of the cliff,
at the sleeping sheep and perfectly cut hedgerows, with
the moon glowing on the top of my blond hair, and I
stepped over the edge.

And I was free.