Page 20 of Judas

Whoever invented this little rubber ball needs a Nobel Peace Prize awarded to them. I’ve been content in my cell for days.

I feel like a dog; amused by something so simple, but it’s effective at keeping me entertained. There’s only so much chaos you can cause before that also gets boring. Before you need something a little less… taxing, and more simple minded. The guards handed me this ball and I’ve been here ever since. Lost in the rhythmic slaps of the rubber each time it collides with the wall—home sweet home.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped keeping count of how long I have been here but if I had to give you a number, I’d say close to sixteen years or so. Maybe a little less. Once Nadia shot me, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere and the Warden decided that I was too much of a hassle and transferred me to this Ritz-Carlton of prisons.

Sortiger.

I nursed and worked through several years of physical therapy, after Nadia left me with gaping wounds that festered at times but eventually healed. She truly put a halt to any chance I had of running anywhere but right to my cell. The pain has finally fizzled out, but anything faster than a jog and my knees try to give out. Ever seen a newborn horse try to stand for the first time then their legs buckle and they fall over? That’s me.

As lovely as Nurse Cindy was, I truly don’t appreciate her locking me away in the medical wing for the months following my hospital stay. The physician came by once a week to check on me, look at the wounds for any sign of infection, and to keep me on a very-low dose of pain medication. Then there were the physical therapists that would rather turn my bed on its side and toss me out of it than help me up and teach me how to walk again. I thought medical professionals were supposed to have amazing bedside manners—boy was I mistaken. The ones in prison are just as vicious and hateful as the inmate population.

Double knee replacements, at twenty-seven. Who would have thought?

Here I am now, though. The healing process was long and the mental anguish— would you consider it anguish?—made it feel even longer than it was.

No amount of toying with other inmates in the medical wing made up for the pure energy which bottled up in my thinning body. Even when Matias came by to goad me with information on Nadia’s trial. He was sure to do that on purpose, knowingthe mere existence of that cunt infuriated me. Then to have her grating voice divulge all of the details regarding the riot, like the snitch she is?

I was angry for a long time.

Before Matias would leave, he’d say something in Spanish and laugh at my dismay, leaving me in that bed to rot.

When I was able to keep myself upright and take more than ten steps without assistance, they put me back in the mix with gen pop. Said that I could fend for myself if needed. Out of all of the lunatics they moved in and out of Darkwater, they left me and about thirty more behind. The ones who participated in the bulk of the riot, those who killed other inmates and the staff, were transferred to other states where they have been convicted—some even executed—since then.

Imagine my disappointment when they didn’t cart me off to one of those institutions. I mean, I’m onlyhalfupset. Sitting here for years bored out of my mind, waiting for something to happen, or get the juice.

An idle mind is the devil’s playground—mine is prison.

A year or two following the incident at Darkwater, the construction crews finished the ‘renovations,’ as they called them. Technically it was restorations, but who am I to argue? I was just a spectator of course. The whole process began a week after. The blood had barely dried, before the crime scene cleaners came in and contaminated everything. Wiping away the beautiful crim—fuck, my mouth is watering, dammit-stay on topic, Lucien—beautiful crimson. Sanitizing the surfaces with bleach, which never gets rid of the iron from all that hemoglobin. Something they should know, but I digress.

Imagine my frustration when the pit was cleared out and the contractors cemented the doors shut. What did the orderlies expect me to do with my time then? Talk to people? Not likely.

On that day, I was sitting in the cafeteria, munching away on shepherd’s pie, when the medical teams began toting bodies out of the pit in droves. Knowing what was concealed beneath the black body bags, I couldn’t help but watch by twisting on my little bench seat, amused by the fact that one of them held that infuriating pretty boy.

Whitlock was relentless in his quest for my confession; such a pity I never truly gave him one. He did, however, dig and dig anddigfor the details on what’s-his-face. His torture, his location, why I did it. Blah blah blah. Though I never shared more than enough to leave them chasing their tails, I did leave Kacey boy in a way that would have the rats eating off of him for months. Especially that juicy eyeball of his I cut out and flung over my shoulder like spilled salt.

ESPECIALLY that. Forgive me, Father, for I have definitely fucking sinned.

Moving on, he isn’t worth thinking about, though I do occasionally. His suffering reminds me of the scarce months next to Nadia. Once upon a time, there was a little heart-to-heart scheduled with her but, of course, she had to go and get locked up. And here I thought she was as slippery as I am when it comes to the law. I guess not, not every child inherits the best genes of their parents. We look similar to our mother but I absorbed her illegal proclivities whereas Nadia tried to be the good girl.

Snap-snap-snap.

“On your feet, inmate,” Officer Lawrence grunts.

“Oh, Lawrence, how I’ve missed your sparkling personality.”

“I said on your feet. That doesn’t require your gums to flap, inmate.”

“Relax,” I drawl with a tilt of my head, attempting to pacify the officer as he stands ready and guarded at the end of my cell. They’re always so touchy around me. Back in the day, my pops would say, “Funny thing ‘bout that white speck on top of chickenshit—it’s chicken shit, too.” Had no clue what he was going on about, but I sure do now. All these guards? They’re the white speck.

As commanded, I rise to my feet and assume the good ol’ well-behaved inmate position. Facing the wall like a petulant child in time out for sticking tacks in the teachers chair, hands behind my lower back where he can begin restraining me. Then, just for fun, I buck at the officer and listen to his keys rattle violently as he tumbles back.

Laugher almost escapes me, but imagine what little surprise I have when he rears back and smacks the back of my head with whatever weapon he’s carrying today. The power of it almost forces my forehead into the concrete wall just inches in front of me. Any harder and it would have cracked then split the skin open for blood to pour out of the wound. Not the ideal way to bleed but at least some of the iron would eventually make it to the skin of my dry and cracked lips.

“Owww, Lawrence, that wasn’t very nice.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bardot. You’re lucky that’s all I did to you,” he snaps.

Touchy touchy.

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