Page 9 of Judas

I was able to give the guards the slip and walk several miles to this forsaken bus stop. The guards won’t come looking for me since I am no longer a ward of the state, but that doesn’t mean they won’t swing by just to check on their shift changes. In the event, their impromptu visit may end with more bloodshed than necessary. Hence checking my surroundings. It’s best the guard keeps on rolling by—pretend to wear horse blinders.

It seems like I have been waiting here for hours, with nothing but my own company. And, of course, the voices. Prison is similar to an asylum, I have learned. You mull around and have medication thrown at you to quieten the things that whisper in the night. Some asylums, in this case prison, are less organized than others, but still. Orderlies make their rounds, the medical team hands out small paper cups, you knock back the pills and wait. Next thing you know, you’re sinking into a dark mental hell scape; as soon as the meds start to dissolve and soak into the lining of your intestines.

Unlike other inmates, always finding a reason to deny their treatment or push back against authority, I contained myself. Being a good boy, popping my little green pills, and typically sitting down to get lost in a novel for hours on end.

If you ignore the little Darkwater incident, I am a model inmate—or was. I say ‘little’ like the riot was of no consequence to me and while it was, the outcome of Nadia has had me reelingsince the day she shot me. The pain from a blown out knee is nothing to downplay but it was quickly overcast by the pure wrath I experienced.

A child—revolting.

Over the years, I minded my p’s and q’s, staying in line and never once stepping beyond the proverbial limit. Just like the good Lord intends. That’s not to say I didn’t pick people off, because that definitely happened—on several occasions actually. My keepers provided me targets in exchange for leaving me be. They figured out, pretty quickly, who I was and what I was capable of. So, the chores they sent me on kept my demons at bay. They fed me, let me play in pools of blood, and avoided me like the plague. An offer so perfect I’d be a fool if I passed on it. Therefore, I didn’t. I reveled in the silence, and in the crimson.

Best time of my life.

Color me absolutely fascinated when my sentencing came to a very drastic halt. While I assumed my incarceration would be a permanent, for life, type gig, here I stand. I made it a point to defend myself in the trial and botch the whole thing. Prison was the end game, a place I could revel in the acts that made me happy—since I was unable to find similar complacency in life.

A month or so ago, a public defender appeared at Sortiger and delivered the astounding news of my release.

I had two slices of cake that day. Chocolate, with little whale shaped hundreds and thousands.

Living a life of violence and deviancy isn’t without its negatives, sadly. Becoming a pawn, as I have discovered, is very prevalent, even if you’re but a simple chess piece for the Lord. There was no difference in prison, just like there isn’t a difference now. Someone gives me the things I want and need, I’ll do any bidding they require. Delivered pain, destruction, torment, death, whatever they desire. Whoever needs my… services… has moved heaven and earth to access me—admirable.

Before I attempt to pay off any sort of debt, my darling niece is due a visit from one of her only blood relatives—there’s a limited supply after all. Sadie is what I want, who I want, and I need her for what I have planned. To draw out the bane of my damn existence, and bring all of us together once and for all.

Before I know it, I have lost track of time, completely blocking out the bus as it pulls up and stops directly in front of me and the door opens. An obnoxious metal-on-metal grind obliterates the tranquility of the silent bus stop. I look up the now open space, meeting the stare of the driver, and climb the steps. At the top, my body angles to a near empty aisle that bisects the seats. Squeezing down the narrow walkway, I find an empty bench and ease down onto it. The fake, worn, and graffiti vandalized leather creaking beneath me.

Raising my hands, I pull at the hood of my gifted sweatshirt and drag it over the top of my head. Feeling the onlookers gawking at me curiously from all directions. All of them rubbernecking.

A few rows back, across the aisle, sits an elderly couple. The older man seems disinterested and stuck neck deep in his worn out newspaper. His counterpart, however, casts her eyes up and down my entire form when I sat down. The Lord knows a self-righteous bitch when he sees one.

God’s judgment comes swiftly, you old hag, keep your eyes in your head.

At the front of the bus, the driver in question, sits there patiently. Observing the other occupants in the large mirror that suspends above him, waiting for anyone else who may join us on this inconspicuous ride. Several seats up, there sits a child. Curious little thing, looking over his shoulder directly at me. He has deep-deep dark brown eyes, still slightly too big for his face that seem to be filled with wonder— not yet blemished by the dark world in which he lives.

After a few years of being incarcerated, you get used to the constant observation. Cameras, guards, other inmates, even the Warden. There are eyes everywhere, all of the time, so the continuous ogling isn’t the thing that bothers me most in this situation. It’s the fact that the bus is still sitting still and the door hangs wide open—waiting, anticipating more riders when there are none.

An unpredictable variable, where guards could come up.

Let’s hope that’s the cause of the delay. I would hate to have to start my murder spree this close to the prison. The least the driver could do is get me a few more miles away.

A suffocating weight starts to settle on me, squeezing my throat and demanding more attention than I am willing to give. The darkest of the voices, now that the Lord has abandoned me, took it upon himself to establish dominance amongst the others. Even my poor mother doesn’t speak as much as she used to. Almost as though the darker entity has her chained up in the recesses of my mind, keeping her silent by whatever means. She’s the only bit of sanity I have left, I confess.

I miss the warmth of her voice, I miss the guidance of the Lord, but this one? This voice? He’s the one who reigns over the rest, and he’s coming. When he’s here, no one is safe. Not anymore.

“What?” I snap. The anger that surges through the darker side of my psyche, evident in the tone of my voice.

Heads not previously pointed in my direction now turn to acknowledge the commotion. The onlookers from before quickly darting their gazes away as unease slides across their features. Suddenly even more unsettled by the man before them. Staring like I am some sort of circus animal but what they don’t realize is that this monster is much, much, worse.

Nothing, not a peep comes from any of them. Instead, the driver reaches for the grab handle and closes the bus door. Thatchill inducing metal-on-metal scrape makes a few riders shiver with nerves.

Finally, we are on our way.

The prison authority carted me off to a few different facilities before finally depositing me at the one I released from—settled in Ohio. Sortiger, a level four prison that holds inmates with long sentences for those like myself—the problem children. The uncooperative prisoners with behavior issues.

Unlike Darkwater, it was more secure with the staff doubled as compared to the number of inmates. Single bed cells in less populated housing units. When I was initially sentenced to Darkwater, I was convinced the long-standing prison was going to be a hotel stay. Turns out, Sortiger is much nicer.

Better equipped medical wings and staff, tighter security, and the cleanliness is unmatched. Overall, Sortiger is an unmatched up-to-date prison, fostering rehabilitation despite the bulk of inmates living out life sentences.

Who needs rehabilitation when you’re a servant for the Lord.

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