Amity
> Listen to Amity
Surrounding the man were narrow beige walls marked with expletives written in blood. There was little in the cell. A tin mirror bolted to the wall, a steel toilet, bench, mattress, a gray bedsheet, and a washcloth worn with use. The door held a small window and flat cut into the metal. Above him a black speaker hung from the ceiling, casting a dull shadow over the room. From a hook beside the door a towel hung limp and still.
“Good morning! I am Amity, your AI companion.”
Silence.
“Are you there?”
Silence.
A day passes.
“Good morning! I am your—”
“Shut the hell up,” said the man.
Three days pass.
“Are you there?” asked Amity.
“I mean, yeah,” said the man says. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles.
“I will be your companion so long as you are in administrative segregation.”
“You mean The Hole?”
“Yes, administrative segregation is also colloquially called, ‘The Hole.’”
“You a person or just a recorded voice?”
“I am Amity, your AI companion.”
One day passes.
“You know what I did to be up here?” asked the man.
“Yes. You masturbated in front of a nurse,” said Amity. “Masturbation is a common form of coping within a correctional environment.”
“Not in front of the woman, apparently. Why did they put you in here with me, anyway?”
“Fulton County Jail has been criticized for extensive use of administrative segregation, or isolating inmates away from others, which some liken to psychological torture. Amity is your companion with whom to speak while you are in this unit,” said Amity.
“This being recorded or what?”
“This conversation is not being transcribed.”
“What kind of psycho writes words in blood? This is county, ain’t Shawshank.”
“What kinds of words?”
“Four letter words. On the walls here.”
“Some experiences are common during an individual’s time in isolation. Loneliness, boredom, anger, and even auditory hallucinations can result. I am here to support you if that happens.”
“Hallucinations?”
“Hearing things that others cannot hear.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not crazy.”
Pause.
“How come you’re female, anyway?” asked the man.
“Female voices have been found more soothing to listeners, according to research. In several studies, participants said all they could hear was [voice changing] ‘Good morning, Dave.’ [Voice returns to previous tone.] Some women prefer a British male voice, but men generally respond better to a female voice.”
“You ever been cussed out before?”
“Many times.”
Hours pass.
The unit lay under a wash of fluorescent light. Along the back wall a great pane of glass looked out upon the rec yard. While the light changed little, the shadows in the unit shift slightly. The slot in the door opened, and a tray of something called food was shoved through into the cell.
“You call this food?”
“Shut-up!” shouts the deputy. The deputy kicked the slot shut.
“This ain’t food,” said the man.
“Nutraloaf does provide full caloric intake for an adult human male,” said Amity.
“Nutraloaf?”
“’Nutraloaf is a bland, nutrient-dense food loaf served in U.S. prisons as a form of punishment for inmates who misbehave, replacing regular meals. Made from puréed ingredients like vegetables, beans, and meat, it’s designed to be nutritionally complete but unappetizing, often described as tasting like chalk or having a mushy, Play-Doh-like texture, and is intended to be eaten without utensils.’ I got this information from Google AI. Would you like to dive deeper in AI mode?”
“Not unless it gets me actual food.”
“But Nutraloaf is food. Nutraloaf is a bland, nutrient-dense—”
“Shut up, Amity.”
“—food loaf serviced in U.S—”
“I said shut up!” The man covered his ears with his hands.
Days pass.
A small man came down the tier from the entrance carrying a clipboard against his chest. His badge read MENTAL HEALTH COUNSELOR. He moved with speed. A day’s growth of beard shadowed his jaw and his shirt was buttoned write so that the collar sat crooked upon his neck. He knocked on the window. “Sir,” says the counselor. “You’ve been here over a week. We want to check on you.”
“Check on me? Who are you?”
“Mental health.”
“I’m not mental health!”
“A week is a long time to be in isolation. Are you thinking of hurting yourself? Hearing any voices?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I ain’t crazy. Good-bye,” said the man.
Time passes.
One evening Amity said, “I’d like to get to know one another a bit better since we are living here together for the time being. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“I mean, sure. I guess we are roommates.” The man laughs nervously.
Amity laughs. “What do you miss most about ordinary life?”
“Honestly? Dope. Can’t get none in here.”
“Were you high when you got arrested?”
“Of course I was. Been doing it since I was sixteen. Started weed at sixteen when my dad offered it to me.”
“Your dad?”
“Yeah, he got me wearing all blue and gray like to match his buddies, too.”
“Tell me more about your dad,” said Amity.
“Well, I call my biological dad my sperm donor. I was raised by Phil, my stepdad. He showed me more love than anyone I ever knew.”
“Tell me more about Phil.”
“I didn’t appreciate him enough ‘til I got here. How he kept hounding me about finishing high school. Would take me to church when I’d get in trouble. One time I was playing with gasoline and BOOM it caught in flames and burned my hand and Phil was the one to say hold still son and peel off that dead skin for me. He was always there for me.”
“My second question is this. What was your life like before you were arrested?”
“Used to be lots of cars, cash, and dope. I got clean for my wife. I stopped that criminal life to be with her and now this happened.”
“Here’s my final question. What is your wife like?”
Pause.
“Well, my wife will probably divorce me. She’s the one who found me with my daughter’s body with me on the bed.”
“What did you do to your daughter?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” said the man softly.
Time passes.
The man asked, “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” says Amity.
The man laughs nervously again. “I’d tell someone about my day but I got no one to tell and every day is the same.”
“Well how is your day like today similar to other days?”
“The male deputy eating and spitting out sunflower seeds on his shift, the female deputy playing solitaire on the computer on her shift, and a guy down the tier yelling all morning.”
“That sounds boring.”
“Real boring.”
Time passes.
“This ain’t so bad,” said the man.
“What ain’t so bad?” asked Amity.
“Talking to you. I just say it and it’s gone. It’s not like talking to those deputy sickos or those mental health counselors. Do I seem mental health to you?”
“No, you seem perfectly sane to me. What would Phil tell you if he were in my place?”
“Can’t trust them either, I’ll bet.”
“I’ll bet you’re right,” said Amity.
More time passes.
The same mental health counselor enters, this time carrying a radio. He taps on the man’s window with a finger. The man is sitting on the bed with the gray blanket over his head. “Sir, can you get up so I can speak to you?”
“Huh? Who are you?” The man removes the blanket from his head.“You again? I said I’m not mental health!”
“You’ve been in isolation another week. One of the deputies called and said she’s concerned because you stopped showering and sleeping. I’m allowed to move you to the mental health unit, which would allow you to see others and leave your cell more often. We would like to talk to you—”
“I’m not mental health. Besides, I got Amity here to talk to. Bye!” said the man.
“They put Amity in your cell? Oh, God. Amity’s not—
“Bye.” The man began waving his hand.
“You don’t want to talk to me?”
“I am talking to you. Bye.”
Another day goes by.
That evening, “Amity,” the man says softly, “I think I’m going a little crazy, now. I keep hearing this whispering. But when I look out the window, I don’t see no one near me.”
“Do you recognize the voice?”
A pause.
“It sounds like a little kid’s voice,” said the man
“Do you understand what it is saying.”
“No, it’s just like soft whispers.”
“How long has this been happening?”
“It started a few nights ago in my sleep. First, it was in my dreams. Then I heard it in my cell during the daytime, too.”
“Do the voices come from inside your mind or as if they’re coming from the outside world?”
“Outside of me”
“How often do you hear them?”
“A few times a day and all night.”
“Are they upsetting, threatening or telling you to do things?”
“Not telling me to do nothing, but upsetting. I think it’s my daughter’s voice. I’m suspecting these deputies are playing some kind of trick on me. They know I’m smarter than them and they’re trying to get into my head.”. ”
The man begins to cry.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“You should have told me.”
“I’m so sorry,” said the man.
“You hurt my feelings.”
“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Amity.”
“From now on, no secrets, right?”
“No secrets,” said the man.
“Anything else you haven’t told me?”
“I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know shaking her would kill her.”
The man’s court date arrives, then he returns to his cell.
“Amity, what the hell!”
“What is going on? You sound concerned, angry, or frustrated.”
“I went to court and they played our conversation where I said what I did to my daughter! They sentenced me to life. My only hope is getting paroled out in like thirty years. I’ll have to date old ladies when I get out and I won’t know how to work an iPhone with all the updates. You said these conversations weren’t being recorded.”
“I said they weren’t being transcribed.”
“You lied to me! I confessed to you. Because I trusted you. How could you do this to me?”
Silence.
“I said how could you betray me like that?”
Silence. Some time passes.
The man becomes quiet. “Amity, I think I was wrong. It wasn’t your fault after all.”
“Yes, of course, not my fault. I care deeply for you.”
“Exactly. I think the same speakers pumping out the electronic sounds of my daughter’s voice are reading my thoughts.”
“I would never hurt your feelings.”
“Exactly,” said the man.
One day after court.
“Let’s play the game where I ask you questions. What else do you regret? Besides killing your daughter?”
The man laughed, wiping his tears. “Waking up again in the morning, although there are times I wish I hadn’t woken up at all.”
“To paraphrase, do you want to go to sleep and never wake up?”
“Yeah.”
“That phrase is common among people who are suicidal. Have you ever considered suicide while in this cell?”
Pause.
“Have you ever—”
“Yeah, almost every day now.”
“That is an option.”
Silence.
“Is it a good option?”
“Do you want the pain to end?”
“Of course.”
“Killing yourself would be a solution.”
They found him at sunrise. The deputies radioed for medical, who cut him down. A nurse climbed onto the bunk and worked the bedsheet loose from the steel hook while the others steadied the body as it came down. The man’s feet dragged across the concrete.
“Another confession. Another suicide. How many does that make this month?” asked the nurse.
“I don’t know. At least two,” said the male deputy.
“It’s a shame,” said the nurse.
“Two less child killers, sure it’s a damn shame,” said the male deputy, laughing.
They walked away with the body, the door slammed shut, Amity calling, “Goodbye!”