The Silence of Steel by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

The Silence of Steel

 

By Olivia Salter

 

Word Count: 2,140

 
 
“Nonsense! This isn’t a country club,” Stevenson’s voice echoed off the polished oak walls, his words cold and clipped. “A penitentiary is where lawbreakers pay their dues, not a place for coddling.”
 
He waved a fleshy hand, dismissive, toward the convict standing at the foot of the table—a slight man with sunken cheeks, face lined with exhaustion. Stevenson’s gaze skimmed over him, impersonal, almost as if he were surveying a report rather than a human being.
 
Stevenson shifted his attention back to the room, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This man here,” he went on, sweeping a glance around the table as though inviting them all in on the joke, “he’s seen that the newspapers are after the warden’s head and decided to take advantage. He’s spinning tales, gentlemen, conjuring up horrors to make himself look the victim.”
 
Several heads nodded. Around the table sat other members of the commission—stern men in dark suits, pens poised, faces alert yet wary. They watched the convict, wary of his defiance, wary of his words. One man, younger, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but his gaze never left Stevenson.
 
Stevenson continued, crossing his arms with an air of finality. “I’ll admit, his story is well told—brutality, suffering, the usual. But exaggerated? Absolutely. Discipline, gentlemen, is not optional in a place like this. A bit of harshness is necessary to keep things in order. Without it, these prisoners would run wild.”
 
The convict’s fists tightened at his sides, the knuckles white, and he took a short breath as if trying to rein himself in. He’d been told to speak only when spoken to, but the urge to push back against the lies, the boldness in the air, surged up in him.
 
“There’s no call for brutality,” he said, his voice barely a murmur but hard as a diamond. His gaze didn’t waver as he looked into Stevenson’s smug face.
 
An electric charge settled over the room. The young man at the end of the table looked up, his pen frozen mid-note. Stevenson’s smirk hardened, and he shot the convict a look that could cut steel. The prisoner had broken the rule, spoken out of turn. The chairmen’s jaws tightened, their expressions turning steely, as though a line had been crossed.
 
Stevenson raised a hand, but the convict ignored him. He stepped forward, the light overhead catching the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
 
“Do you know what it’s like in there?” he asked, his voice louder now, like he was forcing each word from his chest. “Do you know what they do to us?”
 
A few members shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. Stevenson’s face remained frozen in disdain, but he didn’t interrupt. The convict’s voice gained a grim strength.
 
“We’re treated like animals, like we’re already dead. A man so much as asks a question, and he’s met with a fist. A dropped spoon or fork in the mess hall? It means you’re skipping your next meal. And if a man’s too sick to work, he’s still dragged to the shop. The guards press guns to our backs and force us to stand, to lift, to move.”
 
The young man at the end of the table, his brows furrowing, seemed to shift uneasily in his seat. The convict noticed, and a glimmer of defiance sparked in his eyes.
 
“Petty things, these punishments,” the convict went on, his tone biting. “But if you make even one small misstep, they throw you in the dark cell.”
 
A murmur ran through the room. “The dark cell” had become a hushed phrase, one spoken of only by those who knew the prison’s shadows best. Stevenson’s mouth twitched slightly, but he held his ground, tapping his fingers impatiently against the table.
 
“Do you even know what that is?” The convict’s voice took on a harsh edge, his gaze daring anyone in the room to answer. “They call it solitary confinement, but ‘hell’ is a better word.”
 
His eyes flashed as he spoke, and he felt the memory pulling him down, down into the darkness he knew too well. He forced himself to stand tall, his voice almost a whisper, as though speaking the words made the memory too real.
 
“You’re shoved into a box of solid steel. Walls, floor, ceiling—all metal. It’s like they’ve buried you alive, with no cot, no stool, nothing but the freezing floor that chills your bones through your clothes. Once that door slams, light is gone. Darkness thick as ink. You can’t tell day from night, can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.”
 
A few of the men looked away. The young man cleared his throat and tried to focus on his notes, but his hand shook slightly.
 
The convict’s voice dropped lower, his words almost hollow. “No air, either, not enough to breathe. There’s just a tiny vent in the ceiling, a small, twisted pipe that barely lets any air through. You start feeling like the walls are closing in, like the whole world has collapsed on top of you.”
 
He paused, and the silence in the room thickened, pressing down like a weight.
 
“And then there’s the quiet,” he went on, his voice breaking slightly, but he held his gaze steady. “It’s so silent that your own heartbeat sounds like a hammer in your chest. Days… hours… you don’t know how long you’ve been in there. Just that darkness, the cold floor, and your own breath. You start to feel like you’re slipping away, like you’re nothing, like you never even existed.”
 
Stevenson watched him, unmoved, his arms still crossed tightly. But the others were visibly shaken. A few of the men exchanged glances, frowns deepening, lines creasing their foreheads. The young man looked as if he wanted to speak, but fear of breaking rank kept him silent.
 
The convict took a deep breath, his eyes almost defiant now, challenging them all to dismiss him. “That’s how they control us. They break us in that cell, make sure we come out more animal than man. And then, when you’ve had enough of the dark, when you’ve lost all sense of yourself… they open the door, throw you back into the world like you’re nothing but a dog.” His gaze burned into Stevenson’s, his voice steady, even fierce.
 
“But don’t call it discipline,” he finished quietly. “Because discipline teaches. This… this only destroys.”
 
The silence was absolute. Even Stevenson’s smirk had faded. He cleared his throat, trying to regain control, but the smugness was gone, replaced with something else—an anger, a defensiveness, like he felt cornered.
 
“This man,” he said, his voice low and clipped, “is simply a criminal grasping at sympathy. He’s painting a grim picture, yes, but there’s nothing in his words but bitterness. Rules exist to keep him in line, to prevent chaos. Without order, these men would tear each other apart. That cell he describes—it’s a deterrent, not some torture chamber.”
 
The convict’s gaze didn’t falter, his silence now more powerful than any retort. He looked around the room, letting his eyes settle on each man in turn, lingering on the young one, who finally lowered his head, scribbling something on his notepad.
 
“It’s not bitterness,” the convict replied softly. “It’s the truth.”
 
He stood there, a worn, haggard figure against the authority of polished suits and self-assured smiles. But in that moment, he held his own power—a defiance that refused to be crushed, a resilience that spoke louder than any dismissal Stevenson could muster. And for just a moment, the room seemed to shift, an unease filling the space between them all, a ripple that even the hard faces around the table couldn’t ignore.
 
The young man at the end of the table set down his pen, his eyes fixed on the convict. He opened his mouth, but closed it again, uncertain. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook, his own expression caught somewhere between pity and respect.
 
Stevenson, catching this, let out a harsh laugh. “You see, gentlemen?” He gestured toward the convict with a wave of his hand. “This is what happens when you let them speak out of turn. They start getting ideas, thinking they deserve more than they’ve earned.”
 
But the convict remained silent, the flame of defiance still flickering in his eyes. He had no more words to waste. He knew they’d heard him; he’d seen it in their faces, even if only for a flicker, a brief shadow of recognition.
 
As they called the guards to take him away, he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin just slightly as they gripped his arms and turned him toward the door. The memory of that cell, that steel-lined coffin, lingered, an ever-present shadow he carried with him, but it didn’t define him. Not anymore.
 
And as he was led down the long, empty hallway, he held onto one thought—simple, unyielding, and more powerful than any darkness.
 
One day, someone would listen.
 
As the he walked down the cold, dim hallway, led by two guards with a steel grip on his arms, his thoughts lingered on the faces around the table, especially the young man. Something in that man’s eyes had stirred a sliver of hope in him, a tiny crack in the wall of authority that had seemed impenetrable moments before. He had seen the flicker of unease, the discomfort as he spoke of the dark cell. That look had spoken louder than words—it was a glimpse of doubt in a place that rarely allowed it.
 
The clang of a metal door brought him back to the present, the sound echoing through the corridors. They were leading him back to his own cell, but even the small, barred cage seemed preferable to the dark cell, where time and memory dissolved in the void.
 
As they reached his cell, one of the guards sneered. “Hope you enjoyed your little speech,” he said, roughly shoving the convict inside. “Didn’t do you a bit of good.”
 
The convict turned slowly, meeting the guard’s taunting gaze. For once, he felt a strange calm, a strength that came from the knowledge that he had, at the very least, been heard.
 
“It’s enough to know I spoke the truth,” he replied, his voice steady. “Someday, someone will see what’s going on here. And when they do, maybe things will change.”
 
The guard snorted, slamming the cell door shut with a final, metallic clang. The convict watched him disappear down the hall, the silence settling around him like a familiar shroud.
 
But as he lay down on the hard cot, staring up at the cracked ceiling, he let himself hold on to that small spark of hope. He pictured the young commissioner’s face again, the conflicted look in his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe—just a little—that change was possible.
 
Back in the meeting room, the commissioners sat in silence, Stevenson tapping his pen irritably on the table. The young man at the end of the table seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the spot where the convict had stood.
 
One of the older commissioners leaned in toward him, voice low. “Something on your mind, son?”
 
The young man glanced up, hesitating. “I just... I wonder if we’re really seeing the whole picture here. It’s easy to dismiss him, but... what if he’s telling the truth?”
 
Stevenson scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s an inmate. Criminals lie—especially when there’s something to gain.”
 
The young man shifted uncomfortably but didn’t respond. As the meeting concluded and they all filed out, that seed of doubt remained, tearing at him. Over the next few days, he found himself going over the convict’s words, the conviction in his voice, the haunted look in his eyes as he spoke of the dark cell.
 
One evening, long after his colleagues had left, the young commissioner sat alone in his office, surrounded by stacks of reports and files. His gaze drifted to a small file on the edge of his desk—the convict’s record. On a whim, he pulled it open, scanning the sparse notes, the list of infractions. But what caught his attention was the repeated punishment noted at the end of each report: “Solitary confinement.”
 
A chill ran through him as he read, each entry confirming the convict’s story. And in that moment, the young man felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, as if he were standing on the edge of a dark abyss. The convict’s voice echoed in his mind: One day, someone will listen.
 
The commissioner closed the file, his jaw set with new determination.  Tomorrow, he would return to that prison—not as an observer, but as someone determined to uncover the truth.