Page 11 of Sweet Prison
Unbelievable.
I tiptoe out of Dad’s study and dash up the stairs, hurrying to compose my “report.” Maybe, I’ll also ask Massimo something else about himself. Something that would require more than a single-sentence answer. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be willing to share what he wants to do when he’s finally free to walk out the prison doors.
Zahara,
Glad to hear you were able to connect with Nuncio’s old buddy. He knows a lot of good stuff, so good on you for following through, kid.
I’m happy to know that his old habits haven’t changed, and he’s still hanging around his familiar stomping grounds. But keep in mind that his neighborhood isn’t always safe, so if you visit him again, make sure your timing is well coordinated. I would worry if you went to see him and he wasn’t there.
As for your question—I’ve never actually given it serious thought. I guess, I’d try to find a spot where all I could see is trees and the sky. No walls. Not another soul around. Just silence. I’d lose myself to staring at that openness for hours. And enjoy the peace.
You know, people tend to overlook the small everyday things, not realizing their value until they are ripped away. And I don’t mean just the material stuff. Something as simple as being able to sleep without hearing someone near you taking a piss, for example.
Later, I’d find a goddamned whorehouse and fuck my way through every woman in the joint.
PS: What the hell isfusible interfacing?
M.
I sign the letter and throw the folded paper into the rusty metal cabinet next to the bed, the final sentences still burning in my mind.
Yeah, I’ve got a detailed plan for every step I’ll take with regard to the Family business, but I never actually considered what I’m going to do for myself once I finally leave this shithole. I didn’t even think about it until now, answering my stepsister’s question.
Yup, getting laid sounds pretty good.
Do I miss sex? Of course I do. But the lack of it doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should. In the morning, I jerk off, and it’s nothing more than handling my body’s biological needs before I get on with my day. I don’t think about women at all. All my mental energy is directed to my main objective—making sure BostonLa Famigliais headed in the direction I want it to go. Nothing else matters. I don’t think about anything else. I don’t care about anything else. It’s as if my existence—can’t really callthislife—depends on fulfilling that purpose. A shrink, if I gave a fuck about some overeducated ass’s opinion, would probably tell me that sort of single-minded focus isn’t normal, or healthy, for that matter. Good thing I didn’t ask.My wayis the only thing that allows me to survive.
My life, as it was, stopped the moment Judge fucking Collins delivered his sentence.
Jesus fuck, you’re so dramatic,the annoying voice in the back of my mind mocks.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose, willing the infuriating asshole to go away.
About a decade ago, I was treated to my first all-inclusive, extended trip to solitary. After a week in the hole, I must have snapped. Bored out of my damn mind, I started talking tomyself. The echo off the peeling paint of the walls made it seem like another person was there with me. That’s when this fucker showed up to join the lively debate I was having.
No, I didn’t suddenly develop a split personality. I just imagined what my alter ego would say if it had a voice and ran with it, filling both sides of the conversation to pass the time. I liked the asshole. He was still me—obviously—but with less fucks to give about most things. It was freeing, in a way. So, I went back and forth in my mind on how I could have avoided the fight that got me thrown into that stinking hole in the first place. Once I got back to my cell, I figured the asshole would be gone to whatever dark corner of my gray matter it crawled out of.
It didn’t.
Exactly. You’re stuck with me. For good.
Jesus. Get lost!
The shrill ringing of the bell breaks the relative silence, signaling the lunch hour. I wait for the cell door to slide to the side, then step out while my bunkie, a lanky kid in his early twenties, keeps lazing on the upper cot. He got locked up for killing four people in the middle of his college quad, and despite us being cellmates for over three months, he still hasn’t mustered the courage to speak with me. Instead, he simply tries his best to stay out of my way. The day he arrived, a fight broke out in the chow hall, and he witnessed me trying to dig an inmate’s eye out using an empty yogurt container. This seems to have freaked him out.
Or maybe it’s my frequent vocal not-so-friendly chats with the pain in the ass living rent-free inside my head that got it done.
As if.
Fuck off!
It’s not like that fight was anything unusual. Shit like that happens at least once a week, either in the yard or the chow hall. Most times, the guards don’t even get involved. With so many crazy motherfuckers in one place, it’s safer and simpler to just let the cons sort out our issues than for COs to step in to break it up. This place follows a slightly different set of laws than good old Uncle Sam decrees. So, unless the brawl escalates to epic proportions, guards largely ignore what’s going on. But when the proverbial shit does hit the fan, they just douse the culprits with pepper spray. We call it “dinner and a show.” I quite enjoy the entertainment.
In the dining hall, the main line for chow has already formed. Typically, the room buzzes with a multitude of simultaneous conversations or guys yelling over each other, but not today. Most of the men are shuffling toward their food in silence, or are already seated and eating without uttering a word. The atmosphere feels charged.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Kiril mumbles as he falls in step with me, already holding his lunch tray. “We’ve got new arrivals.”
“I should have guessed. Who?”