Prescott

FEBRUARY 27H, 2010

“DEATH IS THE CURE FOR ALL DISEASES” (THOMAS BROWNE)

Time. Is. Death.

That’s why there’s an overhead clock in ad-seg, its needle always stuck on 12:00. Midnight or noon? Day or night? You don’t know, and after a while, you stop caring. If you want to kill a person from the inside, forget about knives and guns.

Use a fucking watch.

Coming out after a week in the hole, the light of day feels unnatural and almost unwelcome.

I ain’t proud of the reason why I got thrown in the hole, but I’d do it all over again if I had to.

It was yard time, and I was sparring with an inmate while the old schoolers and Frank were watching.

I don’t remember when exactly Marco disappeared from my eyesight and Hefner entered my vision. But when it happened, fear trickled into my gut, for the very first time in my life.

Something bad was going to happen, I knew it, but not to me.

Hefner took two steps toward me and curled his fingers around my neck. “Yo, Bitch.” His Aryan friends grouped behind him, armed with glowing smirks and not much wisdom to accompany their glee. “If you wanna stay alive, you gotta join your brothers.”

I peeled his fingers off and muscled my way away, stoic. “You’re not my brothers.”

“You’re white.” A guy behind him with a tattoo on his forehead took a step forward, holding me in place. “That means you’re a brother.”

“Hispanic,” I corrected. “And an only fucking child. Now get the fuck outta my face.”

“You don’t look Hispanic.” Since when did this bunch turn into a movement of genetic experts?

“Leave the boy,” Frank said, shuffling to my side. He was half my height and delicate in build. He was old and weak, and they were immoral and cruel.

“Says who? You?” Hefner shoved the old man. Frank collapsed on the dirty ground. Hefner’s friends picked him up, clutching his arms tight. I yanked Hefner by the collar and threw him against the fence. “Touch him again and you’re dead.”

“You let the old man ride you, handsome fuck?” Laughter bubbled out of him. “It’s not him I’m after, idiot. It’s you.”

This made me feel better. I can deal with the Aryan Brotherhood myself. But I didn’t want to drag Frank into this mess. I threw a punch straight to Hefner’s smug face, knowing that I was about to get beaten up by at least fifteen men, but what happened next surprised me.

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 fuck her.

Or cry and fuck 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.”

I shake my head. I killed a man, but I’m not a murderer. All the same, I understand the underlying order in his invitation. Saying no is not an option.

“I’ll just mess with him a little.” I won’t break his spine, but a few ribs—sure. Why not?

I find Hefner scrubbing pans after dinner. Godfrey’s soldiers are behind me, and they signal the kitchen workers to fuck off with a nod.

Everyone leaves Hefner and me alone.

I stalk in his direction, much bigger in size and presence than the useless prick. I’ve spent my years here working out and bulking up, while he spent his years stirring shit and causing trouble. Hefner wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, wheezing.

“Looky here. There’s our pretty boy.” He still sounds cheerful, but underneath the make-believe smile lies fear. I can smell it. The acidic sweat, the labored breaths. Un-fucking-canny. I want to bottle it up and smell it every time I think about Frank.

I brush my fingertips against a row of pots and pans hung neatly beside the stovetops as I stride toward him wordlessly, my eyes dead.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” He sniffs, still scrubbing the sink clean. “I got brothers inside and out.”

My hand that’s traveling through the pans stops and yanks out a heavy metal tray.

“You killed Frank.”

“He ain’t dead,” he spits. Swallows. Stops what he’s doing.

Scared, scared, scared.

“He’s as good as dead,” I correct, “and so are you.”

I smack him in the face with the tray. He stumbles backward, his back hitting the wall. I shove the tray against his middle, creating a gap between two of his ribs. They snap and break like twigs, the sound sending chills down my back.

Hefner collapses on the floor, tipping over a full bucket of lard.

I kick him in the middle twice, letting him roll over the greasy ground as my Converse sneaker targets his sensitive spots. Spots that bleed easily. Mouth. Nose. The less meaty parts of the legs, ankles and arms. After I’m done assaulting him, when he’s red and purple and swollen, I bend down, baring my teeth next to his ear. “Next time, it’ll be your dick I snap in two. Just to give you a heads-up. Now, get back to cleaning, little bitch.”

Hefner offers a bloodied smile, looking like the Joker. He didn’t yell or scream once I’d beaten him up. Never tried to fight back either.

“He set you up,” he mumbles through broken teeth, collapsed against a wall, his head rolling from side to side. “God told me to kill Frank. Frank worked for him on the outside. There was a contract on Frank’s head before you even arrived in here, you stupid little shit,” He throws his head against the wall and laughs manically. “He was always dead meat. Oh, man, you’re so fucked.”

Crashing the tray against his head, I speed out of the kitchen, leaving Hefner injured, yet very much alive. I skip over the pool of blood under him, anger and fury rattling my chest. Rage detonates in my gut, nausea washing through me.

I’m sick.

I’m seething.

I’m fucked.

The next morning, I find out that Hefner was beaten to death. Not by me, but killed nonetheless.

Lockdown.

Big mess.

And back to ad-seg until further notice.

People don’t get offed too often in prison, let alone at one that’s as high-security as San Dimas, and especially when there are no traces of a murder weapon in sight. Fortunately, I figured shit like this might happen and ran straight into the arms of correction officer Beth Bouscher after the Hefner incident. I have an airtight alibi, but that doesn’t stop people from suspecting.

The death of the Aryan brother sparks a prison riot. Word is I sought retaliation after Frank.

I have a motive. I was seen by the security cameras, walking into the dark corner of the kitchen. Snitches get stitches, so no one’s going to say a word even if Hefner’s killer was seen doing the deed.

Words are weapons, and the ammo on me is being spread by the correction officers who are on Godfrey’s payroll. In cells, hallways, canteens and on the outside, where the real life I hold grudges against is awaiting my return. Jabbers with mouths working overtime, and the good-souls of San Dimas are all too happy to let the rumor loose.

A rumor that Godfrey himself put in everyone’s mouth.

Godfrey knows that now, I need his help more than ever.

Hefner was a dick, but he was also right. My so-called “fatherly figure” set me up.

And now? All I’m left to do is wait and see what plans God has for me next.

NOVEMBER 8TH, 2014

“THE QUICKEST WAY OF ENDING A WAR IS TO LOSE IT” (GEORGE ORWELL)

My release day is in two weeks. Godfrey’s sentence was cut. He’s been pardoned, let go with nothing but a slap on the wrist. Will be out in a month. The governor, no less, pulled some strings to make it happen. Godfrey told me Irv’s already waiting for me on the outside and that I can crash at his until I figure shit out.

The outside world is bad, but Godfrey is worse. He harvests on oppressing people, a powerhouse of corruption. To tell you that I hate him would be an understatement. He put me in a debt that would chain me to his good graces forever. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see him and his right-hand man, Sebastian, losing their lives in an unfortunate accident involving a hazardous waste truck, gasoline, fire and a fucking missile for good measure.

Whatever wicked plans he has, I’m sure my spilled blood will be a part of them. I’m a pawn, a soldier, a slave at his mercy. If I don’t comply, he’ll unleash the Aryan Brotherhood and let them feast on me alive.

For now, I obey, bow down and submit to living under the same roof as Irvin the tattooist. As I wait for my fate to be sealed, I know one thing for sure—whatever mess I landed myself in, in prison, it’s about to get a whole lot messier in the real world.

Nate hasn’t come down in three days, and fear’s most loyal companion, panic, oozes into me. Getting into Irv’s good graces is a task that’s as equally impossible as sneezing with eyes wide open. Scientifically, it’s bound to fail. He is about as compassionate as a brick wall and holds the exact same amount of brain cells.

Godfrey was right. Time is precious. Yet, I spend my days doing nothing. I’ve already read Dreams from Bunker Hill a thousand times. My stress ball is all torn, most of it scattered on the floor like sad snowflakes. I have no fingernails left, they’ve all snapped out of my skin during my attempts to try and peel off the wood on the boarded windows.

My future depends on Nate’s goodwill, and even if under the rough interior and cheap ink hides a compassionate soul, he is a man first. A man who proved to be just like the others. He took, then he left.

If Nate won’t come to his senses, I will lose mine. What will happen then? I’ll attack Irvin with my bare hands and try to make a run for it.

I could get killed.

But at least it won’t be them who kill me.

“Come on, Nate. Come back to me,” I murmur as I hug my knees to my chest.

No, he is not like those men who took. Because he also gives.

Nate gave me the one thing I almost forgot how to feel.

He gave me hope.