Blood to Dust

One week, two weeks, three months. . .loneliness is a terrible thing. A close cousin to death. Sometimes, you need company, even if it’s from the devil.

After a month of courting from Godfrey, I cave in and join them. Irvin, the tattooist, is there too. Seb, who’s in his early forties, nudges my shoulder and offers me his peach. I take a juicy bite off it, my eyes still trained on Sergio and the rest of Frank’s friends.

The peach doesn’t taste good in my mouth. Kinda sour. Kinda rotten. Maybe it’s not the peach.

Maybe it’s me.

MARCH 13TH, 2010

I grind through my sentence in

APRIL 16TH, 2011

Got bored so got a few more tattoos and

OCTOBER 3RD, 2012

“ALL THINGS CAN CORRUPT WHEN MINDS ARE PRONE TO EVIL” (OVID)

Godfrey arrives at my cell and gives me a parental hug. Over the last couple of years, that’s what he’s been to me. A fatherly figure. In my world, that means he’s someone who lives under the same roof and who I’d like to kill at some point.

If the yard is a circus, Godfrey’s the ringmaster. He orders fights—bloody fights—for his entertainment only.

He manages his business on the outside from the confines of these tall walls like it’s his goddamned office.

I’m beginning to see why the DA threw every resource they had at locking him in here for forty years on drug trafficking offenses when he stood trial.

He’s a dangerous man. His place is among other dangerous, soulless people.

“Happy birthday, lad,” he congratulates. He clasps me, hissing in my ear. “Got a proper gift for you this year. Much better than a book. Wanna off Hefner? I have a nice opening for you to walk through.”

I shake my head. I killed a man, but I’m not a murderer. All the same, I understand the underlying order in his invitation. Saying no is not an option.

“I’ll just mess with him a little.” I won’t break his spine, but a few ribs—sure. Why not?

I find Hefner scrubbing pans after dinner. Godfrey’s soldiers are behind me, and they signal the kitchen workers to fuck off with a nod.

Everyone leaves Hefner and me alone.

I stalk in his direction, much bigger in size and presence than the useless prick. I’ve spent my years here working out and bulking up, while he spent his years stirring shit and causing trouble. Hefner wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, wheezing.

“Looky here. There’s our pretty boy.” He still sounds cheerful, but underneath the make-believe smile lies fear. I can smell it. The acidic sweat, the labored breaths. Un-fucking-canny. I want to bottle it up and smell it every time I think about Frank.

I brush my fingertips against a row of pots and pans hung neatly beside the stovetops as I stride toward him wordlessly, my eyes dead.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” He sniffs, still scrubbing the sink clean. “I got brothers inside and out.”

My hand that’s traveling through the pans stops and yanks out a heavy metal tray.

“You killed Frank.”

“He ain’t dead,” he spits. Swallows. Stops what he’s doing.

Scared, scared, scared.

“He’s as good as dead,” I correct, “and so are you.”

I smack him in the face with the tray. He stumbles backward, his back hitting the wall. I shove the tray against his middle, creating a gap between two of his ribs. They snap and break like twigs, the sound sending chills down my back.

Hefner collapses on the floor, tipping over a full bucket of lard.

I kick him in the middle twice, letting him roll over the greasy ground as my Converse sneaker targets his sensitive spots. Spots that bleed easily. Mouth. Nose. The less meaty parts of the legs, ankles and arms. After I’m done assaulting him, when he’s red and purple and swollen, I bend down, baring my teeth next to his ear. “Next time, it’ll be your dick I snap in two. Just to give you a heads-up. Now, get back to cleaning, little bitch.”

Hefner offers a bloodied smile, looking like the Joker. He didn’t yell or scream once I’d beaten him up. Never tried to fight back either.

“He set you up,” he mumbles through broken teeth, collapsed against a wall, his head rolling from side to side. “God told me to kill Frank. Frank worked for him on the outside. There was a contract on Frank’s head before you even arrived in here, you stupid little shit,” He throws his head against the wall and laughs manically. “He was always dead meat. Oh, man, you’re so fucked.”

Crashing the tray against his head, I speed out of the kitchen, leaving Hefner injured, yet very much alive. I skip over the pool of blood under him, anger and fury rattling my chest. Rage detonates in my gut, nausea washing through me.

I’m sick.

I’m seething.

I’m fucked.

The next morning, I find out that Hefner was beaten to death. Not by me, but killed nonetheless.