They turned to Frank.
The guy with the brow tattoo dragged him by the arm across the yard, his frail body grinding against the sizzling concrete. His friends followed, kicking and punching the old man.
I had showed weakness. It was Frank. So they kicked me where it hurt.
Him.
I launched at them, peeling body after body from him, before two Aryan Brothers held me in place and glued me to the wall as Hefner strangled Frank with his bare hands. He sat on my old neighbor’s chest in the middle of the yard and squeezed his throat so hard, the veins on Frank’s forehead popped out like purple snakes. I screamed until my throat felt raw, until my lungs bled and my yells became labored breaths, kicking and shoving, trying to break free.
He was killing Frank.
He was killing Frank, and I was standing on the sideline, letting it happen.
He was killing Frank and slaying what was left of my small, meaningless world in the process.
Hefner didn’t care. He was a lifer, anyway. What could they do? Sentence his rotting body to another life without parole?
When I finally broke free, Frank looked dead. The guards were roaming the yard, approaching us with murderous faces.
“You need to get in the hole, or they’ll kill you,” someone whispered in my direction, and I recognized the accent. I turned around, puzzled. “Punch me, boy. Make a mess.”
“What?” I spat blood. I didn’t even realize I was injured. Godfrey was the most infamous, dangerous inmate aside from the death row crowd. . .and he wanted me to punch him?
“If you punch me, they’ll throw you in the hole. Your life will be considered in danger,” he explained calmly, even though the guards were seconds from getting to us. “Make it bloody, lad. I’ll take care of the Aryan bastards before you get out of ad-seg.”
I wasn’t thinking. I just did as I was told. I swung my fist and hit him so hard, he rolled back and collapsed to the ground with a thud.
Godfrey was right.
I got thrown into the hole, and by the time I came out, he had cleaned up the mess with the Aryan Brotherhood. I know that I’m out of the woods because they keep their distance from me in the yard. The cafeteria. When I’m at work. They don’t talk or approach me. And I know that I’ve opened a debt that will be collected at some point. My freedom’s price is far more expensive than what money can buy.
But I don’t care.
He can’t ruin what’s already tarnished.
MARCH 3RD, 2010
“WHERE GRIEF IS FRESH, ANY ATTEMPT TO DIVERT IT ONLY IRRITATES” (SAMUEL JOHNSON)
Beth takes me to an isolated corner at lunchtime. You can see us behind the glass door, the way she puts her hands on my shoulders, like it’s okay. Like we’re friends. She tells me Frank’s not dead, and I release the breath I’ve been holding since they threw me in the hole. He had, however, lost his voice box and Hefner broke his spinal cord and cervical spine. The bastard hit the important nerves. C something and C something. Frank won’t be able to talk anymore. Or walk.
He will spend the rest of his life in bed.
Assisted by life support.
Because of me.
She looks like she wants to kiss me, the fabric of her green uniform rubs against my orange clothes, and I turn around and leave before I do something I’ll regret.
Like cry.
Or f*ck her.
Or cry and f*ck her.
The old schoolers don’t want me around anymore, and I can’t blame them. I’m responsible for what happened to Frank. Godfrey signals for me to come sit with his crowd, but I don’t.
One week, two weeks, three months. . .loneliness is a terrible thing. A close cousin to death. Sometimes, you need company, even if it’s from the devil.
After a month of courting from Godfrey, I cave in and join them. Irvin, the tattooist, is there too. Seb, who’s in his early forties, nudges my shoulder and offers me his peach. I take a juicy bite off it, my eyes still trained on Sergio and the rest of Frank’s friends.
The peach doesn’t taste good in my mouth. Kinda sour. Kinda rotten. Maybe it’s not the peach.
Maybe it’s me.
MARCH 13TH, 2010
I grind through my sentence in
APRIL 16TH, 2011
Got bored so got a few more tattoos and
OCTOBER 3RD, 2012
“ALL THINGS CAN CORRUPT WHEN MINDS ARE PRONE TO EVIL” (OVID)
Godfrey arrives at my cell and gives me a parental hug. Over the last couple of years, that’s what he’s been to me. A fatherly figure. In my world, that means he’s someone who lives under the same roof and who I’d like to kill at some point.
If the yard is a circus, Godfrey’s the ringmaster. He orders fights—bloody fights—for his entertainment only.
He manages his business on the outside from the confines of these tall walls like it’s his goddamned office.
I’m beginning to see why the DA threw every resource they had at locking him in here for forty years on drug trafficking offenses when he stood trial.
He’s a dangerous man. His place is among other dangerous, soulless people.
“Happy birthday, lad,” he congratulates. He clasps me, hissing in my ear. “Got a proper gift for you this year. Much better than a book. Wanna off Hefner? I have a nice opening for you to walk through.”