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Convict Island




  Mark Mosley

  Convict Island

  Copyright © 2020 by Mark Mosley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Dedication

  I have to start by thanking my selfless, amazing wife. You encouraged me during my writing journey and never wavered in your support and advice—especially when I didn’t realize I needed it.

  This book is dedicated to my students. I hope it meets your approval. Carpe Diem!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  So, there I was, hanging ten feet from the ground in a death trap. I would’ve focused on my lifelong fear of heights, but I was shifting desperately to keep the filthy rope out of the open knife wound on my back. This was a new level of pain, and it added to the frustration of getting captured. The real kick to the groin was that I was there when the trap was made. I literally stood over the guys and watched them set it. “Something big,” they’d answered when I asked what they hoped to catch.

  Squeezing my arm through the crudely-made net to grab the nearest branch, I realized it was too far away to reach. Not that it mattered—I dropped my knife when the trap sprang and sucked me up into the tree. The entire situation was quite a blow to my ego. All I could do was hope for an ally to come to my rescue. Again.

  The felon that took the time to braid these vines into rope didn’t account for how uncomfortable it would make the captor. Or did they? I squirmed, which only made me spin. From the direction of the camp, someone screamed. Another person yelled back, but the jungle made it hard to pinpoint their exact location or determine whose voice it was.

  I pointlessly slapped the bugs that had suddenly become active as the darkness—carrying its usual terrors and fears born from the unseen—approached. Despite my time on the island, I’d never learned to ignore their presence.

  From the bushes near the trail, the betrayer stumbled forward, still carrying his knife that had sliced my back open. I’d been literally and metaphorically stabbed in the back by this douche. As I watched him swat away the same bloodthirsty bugs, a new fear flooded over me—if he was alive, then what happened to…

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  He wobbled like a drunkard falling his way home. Blood oozed from his left ear, running down the side of his head, and there were multiple stab wounds on his chest and stomach. Looking up at me curiously, he said, “Hey, Jhalon. Sorry.”

  “Just die.”

  “Okay.” He dropped to his knees, giggled, and fell face-first to the earth, dead.

  I felt bad for the sense of relief—just an hour before, I would’ve been dismayed at his death. But after his betrayal, it was hard to have much sympathy.

  Pushing aside his demise, I worried about my own. I curled my back like an old man to awkwardly stand in the net, and while trying to balance on the vines like a tightrope-walker, my legs slipped through the holes, jolting my body down and racking my man parts in the worst way.

  As I sat with my legs dangling out of the net, wondering if I’d finally experienced the pain of child birth, something rustled in the bushes. I looked down to see the glowing eyes of a big cat in the dark bushes. I am proud to say—and I’d like this to go on record—that I heroically avoided wetting myself.

  This would be my first encounter with a big cat, and it was unfortunate that I just dangled there like a hunk of meat in a freezer. I tried to turn my focus away from the hunter. After all, the cats weren’t the predators I needed to fear. Masonites had to know I was there. All because of Mason. Freaking psychotic, blood-hungry, power-craving, bearded lumberjack-looking, one-eyed Mason. I’d rather be dead than in his insane hands. If his guys found me . . . well, he’d be “displeased” with me.

  Suddenly, before the cat made its decision on how to proceed with his feast, there was an explosion. Debris flew above the jungle canopy as dark smoke rose. The eyes in the bushes disappeared, giving me a small sense of relief. But as I spun in my net, my fear of being discovered was rekindled. I doubted anyone would miss the six-foot black kid caught in the net right above them.

  Moments later, an eerie silence took hold of the jungle commune. Who was responsible for the explosion? One of my allies? Or Mason’s?

  I worried about my friends. Were they on their way to the rendezvous point, thinking I was there? Or were they abandoning me like the murderers and thieves they were? If they planned on laying low and continuing with the plan tomorrow . . . well, that just wouldn’t work for me. There wasn’t much certainty on the island, but I knew if I didn’t get out of the net, I’d be dead before the sun came up.

  Chapter 2

  What am I thinking? That’s not where I should begin this testimony—sorry. I suck at storytelling. I need to start at the . . . well, the start. That’s the problem with hyperthymesia—I can’t control where I’m taken.

  I’m guessing you’ve never heard of hyperthymesia? I haven’t met anyone who has yet. I’m not saying that to belittle you or suggest you’re an idiot. It’s not very well-known. In fact, I’m one of sixty-one people with it. Like, on the entire planet. Basically, I remember every detail of every day. If you give me a date, I see visions of everything that happened that day.

  Now, this might sound great—and yeah, it’d be awesome to relive cool experiences. But my life hasn’t been so grand, which means I revisit a lot of crappy events. Imagine replaying the worst days of your life in great detail.

  Not many people are aware of my condition, so I’m not sure how they know. For now, let’s keep my condition off the record. I don’t need people to know that I’ll remember everything they say or do to me. How would you feel if your friend never forgot when you hurt them?

  Another problem is that my recollections come sporadically. I don’t sit down and think of a day I want to remember. Instead, something happens and my brain transports me back to another day when a similar thing happened. The flashback can be so realistic and engrossing that I zone out of reality. People think I’m daydreaming. Teachers assume I’m ignoring them. Like, on March 12th of my freshman year, our class started reading Of Mice and Men. My teacher had on light brown khakis, a red shirt with a coffee stain the size of a dime, and a fresh haircut. He read the part where a dog was killed, and my brain jumped to April 22nd
in seventh grade when my dog was put down, which leapt me to September 24th in fourth grade when I found my fish floating in its tank, which sent me back to June 20th of that same year when my cousin was killed in a drive-by.

  Anyway. My name is Jhalon Cleary—pronounced Jay-lun—and the date that matters right now for my statement is August 15th. I’d just started my senior year of high school. It was hot and humid. Like record-breaking, your-underwear-has-been-transformed-into-a-wet-bathing-suit kind of hot. I’d walked into our apartment at 3:41 pm to find my mom passed out on the couch with a lipstick-stained spliff on the coffee table and a small, dusty fan blowing directly on her sweaty face.

  I dragged my feet to the table, pinched the joint between my fingers, shuffled to the bathroom, and flushed it down the toilet, thankful there weren’t any needles (unlike September 26th when I was fifteen, November 3rd when I was fourteen, May 24th when I was twelve . . . never mind).

  A stack of bills was scattered on the kitchen counter. I grabbed the top one, Third Notice! splashed in red across the front. The second bill read Final Notice! so I opened it. Rent. If mom didn’t take care of that one, we’d be moving again. She always allocated money for things of interest to her. Rent never seemed to make that list.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from my brother, Chris.

  Chris: B-ball in 1 hour? Court 2?

  Me: I’ll never say no.

  I rummaged through the barren cabinets, and my equally barren stomach let out a defeatist gurgle as it realized Ramen Noodles would be the main course, again. I ate and tiptoed towards the door. Just as my hand gripped the knob that would release me, mom woke up. “Jhalon! The hell you goin’?” Her voice was scratchy and cold.

  “Gonna shoot hoops at the courts. Be back soon.”

  “You meetin’ your punk brother?”

  I huffed. “Yeah, mom. Chris is gonna be there. So what?”

  She rolled over, so close to the edge of the couch that I didn’t know how gravity didn’t pull her to the stained carpet. “He thinks he’s too good for us, the little prick. Like he forgot who raised ‘im.”

  I could’ve pointed out that she wasn’t the one who raised him—or me, for that matter—but I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. “He always asks about you, ma. He hasn’t forgotten you.”

  She waved her hand at me. “Just go, Jhalon. You got one more year of school, right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, ma. I’m a senior. You gonna come to my graduation, or skip it like Chris’?”

  She bolted up quicker than I thought possible, her finger soon in my face, forcing me against the wall. “Listen here, you little—” She stopped herself and patted her chest as if she had pockets holding important items. In reality, she had a t-shirt way too large for her bony, muscle-less body, and sweatpants that she rolled at the top because they were too big. “Where is it?” She spun and looked at the couch, then turned back to me. “What’d you do with it?”

  “With what?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Jhalon” she spat, stomping back to the couch. She dropped to all fours and looked underneath. “I know I left it on the table.”

  I started to sweat. She never remembered stuff like this. Throwing it out was a bad move. “Never saw anything,” I lied. “Except those bills on the counter that gotta get paid.”

  “Don’t change the subject! Tell me where you put it, you lying mother—”

  “Gotta-go-be-back-soon-bye!” I rattled it off so fast it was like one word, then slipped outside, leaving the curses to hit the door as it slammed shut.

  I hustled through alleys and across streets, trying to make up the time I lost. When I arrived, Chris was already lobbying his way into a game for the two of us. “Here he is!” he yelled as I approached.

  “Sorry.” I gave him a look. The way he closed his mouth and pulled his lips between his teeth told me he had a good idea why I was late. He shook his head, knowingly. It wasn’t long ago that he’d escaped the tyranny of her home.

  “You ready?” he asked me. “Because we’re in this game now.” He slapped my shoulder. “Don’t make me look bad—I talked your game up.”

  I grimaced. “Hope you didn’t make me out to be LeBron.”

  “Nah.” He smiled. “MJ.”

  “Jerk.” I returned a grin.

  We won a game and lost one. In the final game, looking for the final point, I dribbled at the top of the painted key. It was time for my signature move. I faked hard to the left, spun right, stopping just before I faced my opponent. Then I spun back to the left for a fadeway. When the ball went through, I pumped my chest.

  “Ooh!” Chris crowed. “Even when you know it’s comin’, you can’t stop it!” He gave me a few high fives, then checked his watch. “I gotta get home and be a daddy. You stayin’?”

  “I’m with ya,” I said. Our walks after playing were my favorite part of those nights.

  We packed our bags and changed our shoes. Just outside the chain-link fence that enclosed the courts, he asked, “How’s ma?”

  I sighed and rubbed my head. “Nothing’s changed. I think we’ll have to move soon.”

  He cursed. “I’ll send money for rent. Final notice?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll get it to you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  We walked in silence for a bit, passing under circles of light on the ground from the lamps above. He playfully hit my shoulder. “As soon as you’re eighteen, you’re living with me. Got that?”

  Less than a year…

  “You gonna finally grow a pair and ask out that girl?” he teased, sounding eager to change the topic.

  I’d been trying forever to get out of the friend zone with Nicole. The nights of listening to her talk about her latest jerk boyfriend that didn’t appreciate her soft skin, dark hair, or her uniquely bright blue eyes, were over. I couldn’t help but smile. “Plannin’ on it. Lots of goals this year, Chris.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get the girl. Get the grades. Get to college.”

  He smiled. “First in the family to go to college.” He looked at me, then gazed off into the starless sky.

  Having since re-lived this night many times, I still haven’t decided if he was envious or proud. Just two years older than me, he became a father within a month of graduation, which—in his eyes—threw the idea of college out the window.

  “I’m gonna start writing college essays and asking teachers for recommendations.” I said. “I wanna go to Syracuse.”

  Chris scrunched his face. “You know their mascot is just a ball of orange fuzz, right?”

  I stopped walking, acting as if I’d just been hit in the chest with a paintball. “His name is Otto. And he strikes fear into opponents.”

  Chris threw his head back, and laughter erupted from his thick chest.

  I pointed to the pizza place where dim lighting showcased an empty interior minus the solitary worker behind the register, feverishly picking at something in his ear. “Poppin’ in tonight?” I asked.

  He looked in like he was checking who was there. Then he shook his head. “Not tonight.”

  Odd. Chris would go in almost every time for a slice. But we kept walking. “How’s Taylor?” I asked.

  He exhaled loudly. “She’s okay. Getting to the point in her pregnancy where life’s miserable. Happened with the first one, too. She’s uncomfy sleepin’. Walkin’. Standin’. Sittin’. It’s all miserable. And when she’s miserable, I’m miserable.”

  I chuckled.

  Chris continued, “But they’re both healthy. I can’t wait for it to be over, though.”

  “You want another boy?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’d love a little girl. I—”

  An engine roared behind us and we both turned. A black car with tinted windows zipped up, swerved in front of us, and stopped. The driver was a white guy in a tight suit, and he kept the car running as he and two black guys wearing workout pants and muscle s
hirts stepped out. They left the doors open, and the dome light inside revealed another white guy in a suit and sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun had gone down. The light reflected off a shaved head that matched his clean-cut face. He looked up at me and then back down at his phone as if the confrontation about to take place was just another formality on his checklist of activities.

  Chris cursed. “Stay here.” He casually walked towards them and met the men halfway.

  My stomach dropped as I was overwhelmed with the feeling that something wasn’t right. They were just far enough that I couldn’t make out what they were arguing about, but Chris raised his voice an octave. Did they threaten him? I thought they mentioned Taylor.

  Chris got heated and threw his arms around. The men pointed at me and said my name. I don’t know how they knew my name. The driver strutted my way, and a wave of fear made my legs go numb. Behind the man, my brother whipped out a gun. I didn’t know he had one. I didn’t know why he had one.

  “Don’t!” Chris screamed at the man walking towards me.

  The guy dismissed Chris’ warning with a wave and kept moving. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.

  “Oh shit!” I yelled. Just as I was about to turn and run, a BANG! rang out, its echo pinging off the faces of buildings around us. The first shot was followed by a second.

  I was about to check myself for bullet holes when I saw blood soaking the front of the attacker’s shirt, the initial red spot beginning to expand. The bullet must’ve gone through his belly. He fell into me, covering me in his blood, then dropped to the ground.

  The white man in the car called the other two guys back. Before retreating, one of them sprinted to the dead guy’s body, grabbed his gun from his hand and wallet from his pocket, then shuffled into the car. He yelled at my brother, “This is just the beginning! You’re in over your head!”

  Sirens blared in the distance. The fear that had taken me just moments before fled, replaced by clarity. Chris killed someone. He’s going to jail. He’s a father…