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And wonder how the hell it came back to this.
Sharp rocks are a commodity.
I have one that looks like granite that I found a year ago during our outdoor time.
A few days later, I bought a new toothbrush from the prison commissary. I claimed to have lost mine in the bathroom. Things get stolen all the time in prison.
I began to whittle the end of the toothbrush into a sharp point using the rock and alternately filing it against the spalling concrete inside my cell.
It was slow and tedious work, but by the time I was done, I had a shiv that could rip the throat out of somebody.
I kept it on me as often as I could.
When they searched our cells for contraband, I hid it and the rock in a large crack in the concrete between my wall and the floor. I hid other things there too. I’m not a smoker, but I kept cigarettes on hand as much as I could. They helped me keep the other men in line.
No drugs, though. A few men are addicts, but I don’t allow drugs on my cell block. Some of the addicts get transferred. Others go through a painful and torturous detox, but they’re better off for it in the end.
Once Zion came to my cell block, I kept that shiv on me at all times.
I learned to hide it in different places. In the waistband of my underwear was the usual place, and with a little sleight-of-hand, I could move it during a body search.
I never put it up my ass. Was too damn sharp.
Plus, that’s the first place those derelict guards would look.
I had one guard, Hoyt, for whom strip searches were a fetish. He loved doing them. In fact, he only looked up our asses. He generally didn’t look anywhere else.
Fucking sicko.
But Hoyt’s fingers were the only thing that ever got my ass during my years in the joint.
Zion wanted me, though. He was fucked up. Every time he met my gaze, he’d stick his tongue out and make a slurping sound like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.
Made me hate him all the more.
No way was that filthy bitch going to get anywhere near me.
And if he tried?
I had my fucking shiv.
“Bellamy?”
My eyes shoot open.
God, the cell still smells like that guy’s shit.
“Yeah?”
“Got an attorney here to see you.”
They cuff me and take me out of the holding cell and into an interrogation room.
Lola Briggs, my attorney, wearing her signature tight-ass navy blue suit, sits there, along with two cups of coffee. “Nice going, Falcon,” she says.
“I had my reasons, Lola.”
“They’re thinking of charging you in the death of that guy.”
