Join Date: Sep 2006
Posts: 18
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Journal Entry #617
(Raging against fate....)
Dear Journal,
It's that special time again. Where the rusty door swings open, and I almost imagine I can breath something other than the mold, must, and mildew of my uncivilized dwelling. The light from the hallway illuminates my surroundings. Cracked cinder blocks, dripping with slime, the rodent teeth marks against this cold concrete where I rest my weary bones. The pale yellow of my skin, and the damp dread that surrounds me.
Welcome to hell. They set my tray in, and shut the door. Looks like undercooked peas and 3 week old carrots. The meat is as haggard as I feel, and of course, nothing to drink. I have a 5 gallon bucket for that. Not the most pleasant of things, but they tend to believe in recycling.
I give the hard plastic a longing gaze, then dump it with the other slop. Keeps the rats busy, so they won't feed on me. I gave up pounding, beating, and screaming years ago. The only results of that left me laid up in the infirmary for 6 weeks. I am certain the next time will leave me much worse off than that.
Late at night, I can still hear the screams. Still see me pulling the trigger, the bullet grazing her soft pink throat... I can almost hear the blood gurgling as she struggles for a breath that will never come. The memory plays, replays, and is slowly driving me crazy.
Life, plus 40 years. I almost laugh, wondering if once life has expired, they will keep my corpse in here for another 4 scores. I never think of the officer, his family, his life, or the fateful day I left him confined to a wheelchair, never to walk again.
I'm not sorry, not for that. The first, I wish I could take back. But this, no this was worth every single minute i'll spend in here. The anger, the rage, the depression of being locked up until i'm gone...And this asshole with the nerve to treat me like an animal. Yelling "Grab a rack!" and throwing all of my shit in the floor, for me to pick up. The arrogant smug on his face when he would scream "Catch that line" or "Shakedown". Not so fucking arrogant now, are you bitch?
Ah but that was a long time ago. Feels like a million years. So here I am, with brick and stone, my bucket, and my thoughts. I collect them, such as the one i'm thinking now, and maybe one day i'll be able to translate to paper, in the event i'm allowed.
I'll waste away here, growing gaunt, and weak, and tired. And every day, they will see if i'm breathing, throw me my tray, and slam the door again. And it will continue I suppose, until there is nothing left of me. My body is still fairly strong, my mind is as sharp as ever...They don't seem to be weakening as far as I can tell. But when one does (and i'm sure one of them will), i'll finally be free...I hope.
So for every beating I take, every rat, roach, and spider I have to sleep beside, and every day I spend being served time, and malnutrition...And for every time I have to drink from that fucking bucket...I'm going to hold the feelings in. I'm going to keep control. I'm not going to let them beat me. So you keep just opening that door,, Mr. Awful Sir (Officer), I want to make sure you get a good look at this face, every single time...
I'll be meeting you in death.
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