Chapter 8

Present Day

Of all the food present, it was the applesauce that made the most impact. I had asked for applesauce to accompany the pork and didn’t think that I would be blessed with fresh, homemade applesauce. The warden’s wife was an excellent cook, not just judging by the size of the warden himself but by my firsthand tasting of her creations.

Slightly more progressive than some of the other ruthless bastards who ran this hellhole, Warden Bullock would reward good behavior in a variety of ways, including bringing in home-cooked food periodically and inviting “model” prisoners to dine with him. Armed guards were present and attentive, of course; this warden wasn’t a fool.

One of the guards assigned to keep tabs on me caught my eye and spoke quietly.

“Two hours.” He continued, leaving me to my privacy, his starched uniform looking more painful to wear than my orange garb was gaudy. Almost more painful.

Funny how time meant mostly nothing in prison. The monotony of daily life was maddening. Hours turned into days, turned into weeks, months, and finally years. There were only the visits that would break up the colorless uniformity of the routine. Weekly visits from Michelle were the light of my life, the only thing that kept my sanity intact.

I thought back wistfully to how my visits from Michelle came to a sudden end.

It was a warm Spring day. Flowers must have been in bloom as rich scents permeated even these dreadful walls. Cellblock A & C were out in the yard, getting in an hour of exercise and sunshine. I typically spent this time alone, or sometimes I would play a game of chess with one of the older inmates.

That fateful day I was sitting with one of the older fellows, musing about baseball players he remembered as a child, when I saw what I first thought was an illusion. It simply couldn’t be ... Jarden!

He was walking toward me, slowly, deliberately, his face void of expression. He looked older, weather-beaten.

But this was impossible. The penal system didn’t allow for people involved in the same crime to be housed together in the same prison. That’s one reason there were many prisons vs. just a few. Somehow, the system had broken down.

I stood up. I didn’t think for a minute that this was going to be a pleasant exchange. I didn’t carry a weapon, but years of studying martial arts would hopefully help me defend myself from a life-threatening injury, as I was convinced that Jarden would be carrying.

He stopped about ten feet in front of me, his eyes fixed on mine. He held my gaze without comment for at least thirty seconds. A stare-down? That was the best that he could bring? I held his gaze, not blinking, not wanting to give him the upper hand.

“You have two months to go,” he said, his voice unemotional, detached. Something had happened. I suspected that some of the bigger inmates had turned him into their bitch. He was a good-looking young man. Now he looked older. Hardened. I didn’t respond to his statement.

“I’m out of here in two days,” he continued in a calm and even voice, “and the first thing I’m going to do is go visit that slut Michelle and fuck her like the cunt has never been fucked before.”

And with that, the smirk returned, bigger and more enraging than ever before.

He turned and started to walk away, laughing out loud, more like a maniacal cackle.

Through my study of Eastern culture, along with the martial arts, I learned that each person had a pool of chi, an inner circulating life force, within them.

My chi went nuclear.

I don’t have a recollection of what took place next, just firsthand accounts from those who witnessed the monstrous attack. During my subsequent hearing, I heard multiple accounts of how I launched myself off the bleachers at him and, in a whirlwind of blows and slashes, tore his throat open, removed his eyes, and most grisly of all, ripped his genitals off, and then stuffed them into his mouth. Many said it was the most obscene display of berserk rage ever witnessed.

I was deemed too dangerous to be left in the gen pop, the general prison population, so I was placed in solitary confinement. For 23 hours per day, I was alone in my 8-foot by 11-foot cell. There was no communication between me and the other inmates. The only other humans I saw were the guards, and these were very tough, war-hardened types.

Time passed excruciatingly slowly for me. I did get mail once per week, and there was always a letter in there from Michelle. She understood what had happened and why I did what I did, but there was no hope in her letters. She said she enclosed photos, but they were not given to me. I wrote to her and told her, and she tried one time to use a computer scanner to put her image on the paper, printing it out on a laser printer, something new, I guessed, but it was censored by prison officials and cut from the paper.