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I give no reaction either way.
The asshole doesn’t realize I’ve been held captive before—I’ve been beaten and tortured. I’ve beenstarved.
The list is very short for things that’ll break me. Mentally, it’s damn near impossible after all the shit I’ve experienced.
A few months in jail won’t even crack the top ten.
I step into the cell and Officer Sandberg slams shut the iron door with a resounding clang.
My new nine by twelve home surrounds me. Three barren walls and an iron barred door. A bunkbed in one corner. A toilet and small desk on the opposite end. The only sunlight filters in through a square opening near the ceiling.
My cellmate hovers in the middle of the room, taking up a considerable amount of space. He’s at least six-five, probably around two-fifty, two-sixty. Middle-aged with a receding hairline and the male version of resting bitch face.
I barely look at him, ignoring him like I’ve done the other inmates. Instead, I’m busy observing the details of the cell. He’s clearly called dibs on the bottom bunk. The sheets and the same threadbare blanket are wrinkled on top, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s stuffed several white-t-shirts into the pillowcase, adding depth to the sorry excuse for a pillow.
I step over to the bunk. He moves so that he’s in my way.
“Mine,” he says, motioning his head at the bottom bunk.
“Yeah, I got that.” I sling my shit up top.
“Elmer.”
I look at him. “What?”
“Name’s Elmer,” he adds.
I nod. “Salvatore.”
He regards me with an unflinching stare that goes on for several seconds, then he returns my nod, and picks up something off his bed.
It’s a pocket-sized book.The Bible.
“Here,” he says. “Read it.”
“No thanks.” I toss it back onto his bed.
He snatches it up and pushes it into my hands a second time. “No. Read it. Out loud.”
His request isn’t aggressive. His vibe isn’t either.
It dawns on me, looking up into his solemn face, that he wantsmeto read it tohim. Probably has been waiting for a cellmate to come along just so he could ask.
I consider the request for a brief moment, whether I want to be a dick and decline, or do the guy a favor. As cellmates, we’re about to spend a lot of time together in this cramped space. Things would probably be easier if we didn’t hate each other’s guts. Besides, who knows if he could be an asset of some kind down the line?
“Tell you what,” I say, handing him back his Bible. “I’ll read you some later. But first, you’ve got to tell me about this place. How long’ve you been here?”
He drops down onto the bottom bunk. A guy his size, crashing down on a cheap county-funded piece of furniture is a dangerous endeavor. The entire bunkbed rattles and shakes like it’s about to collapse any second. He seems indifferent either way.
With a sudden puppy dog quality about him, he peers up at me with big, sad eyes. “Three months. Awaiting trial. Manslaughter. Innocent.”
“Aren’t we all?”
My sarcasm flies over his head. He jabs a thick thumb hard into his chest and says louder, “Innocent! Didn’t do it.”
“When’s your trial?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. They’ve forgotten.”
