Blood to Dust

I peeled his fingers off and muscled my way away, stoic. “You’re not my brothers.”

“You’re white.” A guy behind him with a tattoo on his forehead took a step forward, holding me in place. “That means you’re a brother.”

“Hispanic,” I corrected. “And an only fucking child. Now get the fuck outta my face.”

“You don’t look Hispanic.” Since when did this bunch turn into a movement of genetic experts?

“Leave the boy,” Frank said, shuffling to my side. He was half my height and delicate in build. He was old and weak, and they were immoral and cruel.

“Says who? You?” Hefner shoved the old man. Frank collapsed on the dirty ground. Hefner’s friends picked him up, clutching his arms tight. I yanked Hefner by the collar and threw him against the fence. “Touch him again and you’re dead.”

“You let the old man ride you, handsome fuck?” Laughter bubbled out of him. “It’s not him I’m after, idiot. It’s you.”

This made me feel better. I can deal with the Aryan Brotherhood myself. But I didn’t want to drag Frank into this mess. I threw a punch straight to Hefner’s smug face, knowing that I was about to get beaten up by at least fifteen men, but what happened next surprised me.

They turned to Frank.

The guy with the brow tattoo dragged him by the arm across the yard, his frail body grinding against the sizzling concrete. His friends followed, kicking and punching the old man.

I had showed weakness. It was Frank. So they kicked me where it hurt.

Him.

I launched at them, peeling body after body from him, before two Aryan Brothers held me in place and glued me to the wall as Hefner strangled Frank with his bare hands. He sat on my old neighbor’s chest in the middle of the yard and squeezed his throat so hard, the veins on Frank’s forehead popped out like purple snakes. I screamed until my throat felt raw, until my lungs bled and my yells became labored breaths, kicking and shoving, trying to break free.

He was killing Frank.

He was killing Frank, and I was standing on the sideline, letting it happen.

He was killing Frank and slaying what was left of my small, meaningless world in the process.

Hefner didn’t care. He was a lifer, anyway. What could they do? Sentence his rotting body to another life without parole?

When I finally broke free, Frank looked dead. The guards were roaming the yard, approaching us with murderous faces.

“You need to get in the hole, or they’ll kill you,” someone whispered in my direction, and I recognized the accent. I turned around, puzzled. “Punch me, boy. Make a mess.”

“What?” I spat blood. I didn’t even realize I was injured. Godfrey was the most infamous, dangerous inmate aside from the death row crowd. . .and he wanted me to punch him?

“If you punch me, they’ll throw you in the hole. Your life will be considered in danger,” he explained calmly, even though the guards were seconds from getting to us. “Make it bloody, lad. I’ll take care of the Aryan bastards before you get out of ad-seg.”

I wasn’t thinking. I just did as I was told. I swung my fist and hit him so hard, he rolled back and collapsed to the ground with a thud.

Godfrey was right.

I got thrown into the hole, and by the time I came out, he had cleaned up the mess with the Aryan Brotherhood. I know that I’m out of the woods because they keep their distance from me in the yard. The cafeteria. When I’m at work. They don’t talk or approach me. And I know that I’ve opened a debt that will be collected at some point. My freedom’s price is far more expensive than what money can buy.

But I don’t care.

He can’t ruin what’s already tarnished.

MARCH 3RD, 2010

“WHERE GRIEF IS FRESH, ANY ATTEMPT TO DIVERT IT ONLY IRRITATES” (SAMUEL JOHNSON)

Beth takes me to an isolated corner at lunchtime. You can see us behind the glass door, the way she puts her hands on my shoulders, like it’s okay. Like we’re friends. She tells me Frank’s not dead, and I release the breath I’ve been holding since they threw me in the hole. He had, however, lost his voice box and Hefner broke his spinal cord and cervical spine. The bastard hit the important nerves. C something and C something. Frank won’t be able to talk anymore. Or walk.

He will spend the rest of his life in bed.

Assisted by life support.

Because of me.

She looks like she wants to kiss me, the fabric of her green uniform rubs against my orange clothes, and I turn around and leave before I do something I’ll regret.

Like cry.

Or fuck her.

Or cry and fuck her.

The old schoolers don’t want me around anymore, and I can’t blame them. I’m responsible for what happened to Frank. Godfrey signals for me to come sit with his crowd, but I don’t.