A Man Cut Into Slices

Chapter 1

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK.

That’s the jarring sound I hear echoing through the section as all thirty-two cells open one after another. My new life revolves around this

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

all day, every day. At any given moment, I’ll be in the middle of a card game or walking laps when I hear the

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

of the cell doors popping loose from their locked-open position. Next, the copper in the section starts yelling

RACK IN, RACK IN, RACK IN!

This could mean any number of things is going on. Maybe a fight broke out anywhere in the jail, maybe someone tried to kill themselves, maybe we are getting raided randomly, maybe the copper in our section is just having a bad day and wants to flex the small amount of power they have in their life. And, of course, it could just be time for “food.”

It’s my first breakfast out of quarantine and in the minimum-security general population. The night before, my new celly had hyped up today’s breakfast as the coveted biscuits and gravy with a carton of milk. I do not buy into his enthusiasm because I’ve already had four days of meals in this freezing hell. They don’t give us food for our meals; they provide feed for livestock.

We are all waiting outside the entrance to our open cells while the trustees bring the food cart in and pre-count the trays. The copper then calls out, “Bottom tier, line up.” We line up single file, and he passes us an orange plastic spoon, one by one. We continue single file until we eventually get handed a tray by one of the trustees.

My celly is right in front of me in line, and without asking, he turns around and motions me to follow. Since our tier went first, we get dibs on seats at the tables. If there are no spots, we’re supposed to take our tray to our cell to eat.

I sit down with my tray and look at the supposed “best breakfast” of the week. It looks just as miserable as any meal I’ve seen so far. I pick up a biscuit with my hand, and when I take a bite, a large portion turns to crumbs, falling on my lap, which I lazily brush off onto the floor.

I glance around at the sleepy-eyed inmates chowing down on their favorite meal when I notice a pair of icy blue eyes staring right at me. Surrounding the eyes is a pale face with inked lightning bolts and a shiny bald head. In a flash, lightning turns to thunder as the creature opens his mouth.

“Do I look like a fucking maid? You think I’m your Mommie here to clean up after you?” he says mockingly.

Everyone at the table is looking now, and I can feel the cops and cameras zooming in on me. I think I hear my ancestors turning in their graves, and even God himself stops playing dice to look down. Everyone is watching to see what I say.

But before I’m able to even finish the “o” of my answer, the demon starts talking again.

“That’s right, I’m not. So learn your fucking manners or I’ll learn them into you. Got it?”

He doesn’t wait for my response — he just turns to his food and takes a bite. I’m still frozen, looking at him, and I notice that not a single crumb falls outside his tray when he eats. I grab my spoon and grip it hard, trying not to show how badly my hand is shaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my celly’s head shaking back and forth slightly.

I can hear him thinking, This kid has a lot to learn.

After we finish our meal, we place our tray back in the cart and put the spoon the copper gave us on the cup holder outside our cell doors. When both my celly and I are finished, we close the cell door. I get back in my bed and try to go back to sleep, but my heart is still racing from the breakfast encounter. My mind starts wandering, and I wonder how I was so stupid to make such a simple mistake with manners.

I’ve always been respectful, but I’m seeing jailhouse rules here I need to learn — and fast.

Just two days ago in quarantine, I got up in the middle of the night to pee. The toilets suck down with such great force that you can hear it anywhere in the section. So as not to disturb my sleeping celly, I left the piss in the toilet without flushing. In the morning, my celly — who was a nice guy — informed me that wasn’t the correct etiquette. Always flush. That goes for farts, too. Sit on the toilet and flush them if they stink.

There are all sorts of other jailhouse rules — some followed loosely here, but I’m told would be mandatory in prison. Stuff like don’t use the words “punk,” “bitch,” or “lame,” unless you’re ready to fight; sit down when you pee so you don’t splash into the house.

Then, of course, there are good practices, so you don’t get caught slippin’. For example, picture trying to fight someone with your pants around your ankles — not ideal. Well, if you take one of your legs out of your pants while taking a crap, your chances of surviving a cell fight go up dramatically.

Apparently a pro mixed martial artist was caught like that. Legend says the dude literally died with his pants around his ankles. Allegedly, he also got stabbed up over three hundred times in less than a minute.

I believe the whole story.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK.

The tray carts are out of the section, and the trustees are done cleaning after breakfast, so the section is now open. Even though I’m lost in my thoughts, I’m still trying to go back to sleep. I’m not a morning person and don’t know what to do with my time here, anyway. My celly, on the other hand, has things to do — so instead of closing the cell door, he opens it all the way, locking it into the open position.

I’m just starting to fall asleep when I hear the most annoying sounds in the world: scripted arguments between stupid people.

Someone is playing The Jerry Springer Show on the TV right outside my cell.

I never spent much time paying attention to the bleeding television — it’s so under-stimulating, and my imagination is too needy. Before I got locked up, I was always confused about how a show like Jerry Springer could exist, let alone be so damn popular. Now I’m trying to sleep, and these idiots arguing are being forced into my brain.

I try to tune it out, but the stupidity of what I’m experiencing is consuming my mind. Deep within me, a melting pot of emotions has been brewing over the past five days: the lack of control I have over my life, the lack of acceptance that this is my new reality, the anger, confusion, and fear. The fact I killed a man, the fact my woman left me, the fact I lost everything. I can feel it all coming to a boil, and I’m about to explode. And now I have to sit here and listen to this stupid fucking show.

No, this is something I can change — I don’t have to put up with this.

I throw my blanket off me and am about to storm out of my cell to demand whoever is watching TV change the channel, when the copper shouts, “Medications!” The speaker on the wall comes alive and calls, “Knight, vitals check.” Everyone just coming into jail is coming off drugs or alcohol, so every morning for the first ten days, we get our vitals checked.

My momentum to explode is immediately halted, and the cork is loosely put back on my bottle of emotions as I get in line to see the nurse. There are plenty of inmates waiting in line for the pills the jail hands out like candy. By the time I reach the nurse’s cart, all my previous adrenaline has dumped, and I feel a strange combination of numbness and despair.

The nurse puts the blood-pressure cuff around my arm, and it starts to tighten. As it gets tighter and tighter, the feeling spreads to my neck as if a noose is being tightened.

Thump thump... thump thump... thump thump.

I start to feel my pulse echoing off a thousand tiny mirrors inside my skull, and it feels like I’m being consumed again. I can’t see straight, and I start to panic. The nurse looks at me with concern and says, “Cillian, are you alright?”

“Alright? Alright? How can I be alright?” I manage to get out between a short breath. “You just called me Cillian — no one calls me that. Why did you call me that?” My legs are jello and my breaths are getting shorter and shorter.

“Breathe, just breathe,” I hear her say in the distance. But I can’t catch my breath. I start hyperventilating and the tears begin pouring out. I feel myself spinning out of control and my legs give way. I fall to the ground, taking the blood-pressure cuff and a dozen other things from the cart with me. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a voice call out for backup as my cries turn into sobs. Snots bubbling out of my nose, and my chest convulses as I beg myself to wake up from this nightmare.

But there is no waking up — I’m falling deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Out of the eternal darkness, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder and hear a compassionate voice say, “You need to breathe.” A part of me somehow listens, and my lungs fill with one full breath. I hold it in as long as I can, then release it. The panic passes, and I regain awareness of the situation. The kind nurse kneels in front of me, but right behind her is a stunningly beautiful blonde angel with a halo and heavenly light as her backdrop.

A jet-black figure appears to block my vision — and only then do I notice I’m surrounded by five coppers dressed to kill, ready to put me down if I get aggressive.

But aggression is the last thing I feel. As I fully come to my senses, I’m a hollowed-out shell, deeply embarrassed about the scene I just created. Everyone is watching me again, and I can feel God roll his eyes as he turns his back and continues his game.

Yes, I can stand. Yes, I can follow you in handcuffs to wherever you’re taking me. Yes, I’ll wait here in a turtle suit. Yes, I can spend the rest of the day in a padded cell where you can watch me and make sure I don’t harm myself. No, I don’t have an urge to masturbate. Yes, I will take the pills you give me. Yes, I am A-Okay.

Yes, to whatever you want — just leave me alone.

End of Chapter 1

When the lights always on, the shadows grow strong.

© Shane Wright, 2024. All rights reserved.