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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.
Turn around and walk away.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past ten minutes. I’m standing in the middle of Draeger’s, a preppy, uppity, expensive-as-fuck supermarket in Blackhawk Plaza. I’ve been here twice before. Mrs. Hathaway sent me to buy her groceries while she was hiding at home after a neck-lifting surgery, and both times, I wanted to crawl out of my body and run for my life, leaving a crust of epidermis on the floor, like a snake who molted its own skin.
