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“It’s one of those things that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense until you’re there. It just sounds like complete chaos twenty-four hours a day. Men screaming, getting in fights, it’s all a constant occurrence there,” he continues.
“Can you tell me more about it?” I ask, growing intrigued about a life so distant from the one I know.
He takes a deep breath, resenting me for taking away his smoke break. “I mean, the food in prison is god-awful. I remember the first morning I was there, they gave us toast with oatmeal and jam, and it was fucking disgusting. Even the toastwiththe jam. I thought that maybe I’d just lose a ton of weight and cut my losses, but eating becomes a part of your routine.”
It’s interesting to hear Matteo talk about shitty food first when asked about his experience in prison. It must be as bad as everyone says it is, but from what I’ve heard from the men I’ve interviewed, it’s mostly just boring and cold.
“Did you have any enemies in there? Like, people you’ve had issues with in the past?” I ask.
He laughs a little, rolling his eyes. “No, not right away. But there was this fuckin’ guy who would not leave me alone. He was this little Scottish punk who was waiting for a sentencing hearing. I guess he stole a bunch of cars, something tame in comparison to what the rest of us were in for. He kept trying to fight me to prove that he wasn’t a bitch.”
I try to imagine what this strange little man might look like, and I picture him being bony as hell with dark circles and a shitty haircut. I’m enjoying the mental visual of Matteo beating the shit out of this imaginary man.
I curl up even closer to him, and I wonder to myself how he feels about it. Does he find it too clingy and overfamiliar? Does he think I’m gettingthe wrong idea, god forbid? Because I am. Right now, I want to preserve this moment, distill it down to its purest components, and drink it down it later when I miss him.
If only.
But his face is unfocused and distant. His affect lacks warmth, and he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about being near me now that we’re done fucking. Did he really just come here to fuck me and leave? Would her really do that?
Of course he would. Why would I try to convince myself that he’s different from other men? He knew I would come crawling back to him. How embarrassing for me, taking my leave with such grandeur and melodrama only to come back slithering on my belly. I might as well be kissing his feet.
My sisters would all be so disappointed in me for this. I can feel their stares, their expressions of disbelief as I explain our unique little dynamic. They would be begging me to drop him, to get a restraining order and move apartments.
But I can’t. I can’t let go of him.
Matteo finally speaks up again, still refusing to look directly at me as he regales me with his prison stories.
“I met some people in there that I would consider friends. It’s important to have friends in prison, especially when you’re being tried for murdering a nineteen-year-old girl. That shit gets around, and you have a target on your back the entire time. Criminals have a weird code of conduct,” he continues, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the pattern on the ceiling tiles.
I sit up, finally choosing to look him in the face to study his responses to my questions. “What would you have done if someone tried to hurt you?”
He pauses, smiling slightly. “I’d fucking kill them back. I’ve killed plenty of people throughout my life. You think I’d lose sleep over a guy in prison? He’d probably be one of those fucks who was in for beating the shit out of his girlfriend. That’s always how that bullshit goes. Tempting me to kill him would be the best thing he ever did for society.”
I always think it’s so interesting how disjointed Matteo’s opinions are of other criminals. I understand that he feels a sense of pride for the way he conducts his business, looking down on others who commit petty or violent crimes just for the hell of it. He considers himself to be an upstanding citizen of the crime world, which is a concept I’ve tried and failed to get my head around.
“Do you think you’ll really have to go back?” I ask with a heaviness in my voice.
“Yeah, for the murder I committed.”
I freeze. “What do you mean? We were together the night Shimmer was murdered.”
“Yeah, not her. I’m going to kill Vitale. I don’t give a fuck anymore. He needs to die, and I’m going to be the one to take him out. He’s forfeited his humanity by being such a monster,” he replies with a darkness in his tone.
My blood runs cold. How is he so calculated about this? How does he maintain enough rage to kill someone while remaining calm and collected? Has this anger been here the whole time we were together?
I can imagine that he’s had a hard life, but this kind of quiet rage makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. If he’s capable of holding such a strong grudge, what is he truly capable of?
I’ve never seen him like this. He’s usually stoic, maybe a little cocky, but I’ve never seen eyes so thirsty for revenge. It’s off-putting to say the least, but the fact that such anger and hatred is held specifically for such a terrible person makes it kind of noble to me. Perhaps my moral compass has been irreparably fucked since this experience has taken place, but I might as well learn to get used to it.
“What’s your plan? What are you going to do?” I ask.
He’s silent, looking at me with an expression that saysyou wouldn’t understand anyway.
I wait for an explanation, a dismissal of my question, something. But I get no answers.
He stares off into the imaginary distance of my ceiling tiles, and suddenly I’m feeling very uneasy about this whole situation. I thought that having him back would make me feel like we could really be a family with this baby, but now I see just how calculating he can be.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I ask, trying to conceal the hurt and insecurity in my voice.
