minutes of talking nonstop, I’d pause and shriek, “Killer!?” He’d reply, and I’d
carry on. It was madness, I knew, this perverse dread of being alone. It should’ve
been humiliating, but my hysteria was so overwhelming I couldn’t feel shame.
Eventually I had to let him go. It was night out when I decided I had to let Killer
rest. I slept in the handcuffs, shackles, and chains that connected the two. My
wrists and ankles were swollen after twenty-four hours of wearing the steel. I
started shaking uncontrollably the next morning when I heard Big One talking
and walking toward my cell. I glared down at my hands. What the hell is wrong
with me? Why am I shaking? Why does it feel like somebody’s squeezing and
twisting my insides? I’ve been beat up worse than this—and close to death
several times. How could these cowards have me feeling like this? Unless it
wasn’t only them, but time. All the time spent in the hole . . .
He stopped at my door and knocked. I kept my head on the table as I sat on my
bunk and ignored him. “Hey,” he shouted to Little One, “I think we finally broke
him.” They stood at my door and laughed. “Still smelling like shit, aren’t you? Ha!
This is what you wanted, ain’t it?” He wheezed from laughing so hard. “You want
to be in those chains another twenty-four hours? Huh?” I didn’t dance for them
like it seemed they wanted me to. “Just remember, you asked for it, you little
pussy.”
Asked for it . . .
Is that what everybody says before turning a blind eye to abuse of authority?
My fault . . .
It’s all my fault. Because of the crimes I committed years ago, the crimes I have
beaten myself up over and damn near gone insane over—I’m alone in the fight.
Forever alone.
Forever helpless.
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