CYCLED SENTENCE - PART 5

INITIATION

Almost three weeks later I woke up from a coma with a belly full of stiches and tubes coming out of every orifice of my body.   Apparently, the black blur I noticed just before I was about to send the front of my attackers face to the back of his skull, was a detention officer who saw it fit to smack me over the head with a baton.  I would later come to find out that six men died in the riot. In all the chaos, nobody could prove who was killed by whom, and I found myself getting off scot-free over the death of the big nigger.

All the while, I knew nothing of my other attackers’ fate.  I wasn’t sure if he had been a part of the six that died, or if he would be waiting for me to return to the yard.  I spent one more week in the hospital recovering, and then by my own two feet, returned to my cell.  That night a storm came down on the prison so hard that it could be heard through the three foot thick, reinforced walls.

Aside from the rain and thunder, the block was spooky quite that night.  No inmates yelling out or singing as they usually do.  The storm seemed to have us all in its spell.  The power had been going off and on between flashes of lightning, leaving only the emergency flood lights to guide the guards as they walked their rounds.  Every thirty minutes or so, I would be blinded by a bright flashlight in my eyes.  “Look alive inmate”.

The guards went on high alert once the power fully went out, making cell visits every fifteen minutes to be sure that no inmates were going with it.  Usually around this time, I would be reading, but it was too dark to see, and my head was still fogy from all the morphine they had me on.  I was lying on my bunk, about to doze off, when I felt something wet hit my lips.

I thought maybe there was somehow a leak letting the storm in.  I flipped myself to the other end of my bunk and tried to settle.  No sooner then I closed my eyes; another drop fell to my face.  I tried to focus my attention to the ceiling, but could only see murky darkness.  In fact, the room seemed darker then it was before I changed position.  It was then, within a silhouette back lit by a flash of lightning, I realized a man was standing over me.

With a genuine moan of terror, I rolled off the bunk, landing face down at the shadows feet.  The floor was wet.  I could then smell and taste that I was soaking in a puddle of blood.  From the back of my collar I felt a tight grip as I was pulled to my feet with ease.  I could hear the man gargle and gasp for air while droplets of blood splashed from his face to mine. 

His eyes were solid white, as if rolled back in his head. They were all I could see in my panic, until just then, the power kicked back on.  Complete terror left me paralyzed in the realization that I was now in the strong dead hands of the big nigger that I killed in the yard.  Leaving his vestigial mouth slacked wide open with his tongue hanging out, his skin was purple and his movements were stiff.  He pushed me up against the wall of my cell and brought his throat towards my face.  I could hear a hissing coming from the gash I put in it almost a month back.

Then, a bulge took form in his neck. I am certain that I heard his spine breaking, when to my complete horror; I saw fingers coming out from the gash.  A white man’s fingers, with the letters H-A-T-E tattooed across the knuckles.  The hand cracked and ripped itself further out his throat, clawing at my face as his head fell back and limp with the severing of his spine.  The hand curled into a fist and started to force its way into my mouth.

I tried to bite it, but opening my mouth only made it easier for it to jerk its way in. In a violent contortion, I could feel my jaw dislocate as the fist lodged itself deep passed my gag reflex.  I began to vomit over and over, but nothing could escape my blocked passageway.  By the time the arm was elbow deep into me, I finally succumbed to asphyxiation, or at least I think.

When I came to, I was back in my bunk.  The power was out again, and there was no sign of the black Frankenstein monster.  No puddles of blood or scratches on my face.  I figured it to be a bad dream.  I sat up to try and shake the nightmare from my thoughts when something peculiar caught my attention.  The bars to my cell gate were wide open.

The storm was raging on outside and the block was still quite. Not knowing what to do, I just sat and listened for the footsteps of a guard.  I thought, surly they must have just opened the gate and are coming in to check on me or something.  I waited. Moments passed and I heard no footsteps or any sounds other than the rain and thunder. 

I started to wonder if it was some sort set up.  Maybe the guards wanted me to try and escape so they could have the pleasure of beating the shit out of me. Maybe an inmate paid them off to leave my cell open so they could sneak in and kill me in my sleep.  Perhaps my attacker from the yard would be stepping in at any minute to finish the job. I decided to get up and try to shut the gate myself.  If it was a trick, I didn’t want to fall for it.

I pulled on the bars but they wouldn’t budge. Slightly hesitant, I poked my head outside the gate and looked down the block for a guard.  I half expected to get my skull wacked, but there was nobody.  I took one step out and my foot glided on something slick.  I caught myself on the bars of my cell and looked down to see a red arrow made in blood.  It was obvious to me then that my gate was intentionally left open.  Somebody set this up and they wanted me to know which way to go upon leaving my cell.  Not knowing what to do, I decided that if it was a trick, if somebody meant me harm, then odds are they would have just killed me in my sleep. 

I decided to follow the arrow, but not before putting a bar of soap in a sock to use as a weapon.  I stepped out of my cell and proceeded in the direction clearly marked for me.  I made sure to check each cell that I came upon, not passing until I was positive they were securely shut.  By the third cell I passed, I came upon a black inmate who was standing at the bars of his gate.  His eyes were wide open and he was shaking in a feverish sweet. He was as pale as a black man can get.

He didn’t speak out to me, nor did I to him.  He just followed me with his big white eyes as I carefully passed.  I got to the end of the block where another blood arrow was placed pointing down the stairs. I followed the steps down, with each step, losing my fear.  I started to feel almost angry.  I didn’t like the fact that somebody was fucking with me, friend or foe.

Every gate that I came to that should have been locked wasn’t. I eventually came across another blood arrow that led into the folding room. It’s a big square room with rows of tables and rolling hampers for folding laundry.  The room was almost completely black except for the beam of an emergency light casting to the center of the room.  Tied to a chair in the spot light, a black man was hunched over with a pointed white hood like that of a Klansman over his face.  It was clear to see by his clothing that he was an inmate.  The hood had spots of red and there was a large bloody swastika painted on the floor beneath him. 

I cautiously approached him to find that just a few feet from the swastika was a baseball bat, also spattered in blood.  I picked the bat up and dropped my soap mace.  Looking it over I found a note pined by a single nail to the fat end. It read “Finish the Job”.  Right then I knew who was under the white hood.  This wasn’t a trick, it was a test.

I pulled the hood off and sure enough I was right.  It was the nigger that shanked me in the yard.  His face was swollen, but I could tell it was him.  The poor boy had been beaten black on top of black and left for me.  In that moment, I no longer felt angry towards him.  I felt bad.  I wanted to run out of the room and back to my cell, but I knew that the note was not a request. It was a demand. 

This was my only chance to pay back the Nazis that helped me in the riot, and I knew that if I didn’t, they would collect on my debt.  It was me or him. The poor boy tried to mutter something, but I refused to listen.  I’m sure he was begging me not to kill him, but I didn’t want to hear it.  I didn’t want his cries to strike a chord of empathy.  I took the bat and as hard as I could, hit him across the back of his neck. The blow killed him instantly.

Lightning flashed, filling the dark corners of what I thought to be the empty folding room with men, all in white pointed hoods.  They had watched the whole thing.  One of them stepped forward into the beam of the emergency light and with what sounded like a German accent he said, “Your initiation is complete. You may go back to your cell.”

Without a word, I put the bat down and walked out of the room. Back in my cell I was overcome with guilt.  Not with the guilt of killing, but the guilt of now belonging to something, something evil. My hands were shaking and soaked in blood so I ran them under the sink in my cell. Washing the blood clean, I fell faint upon discovering something on my right hand that I am positive was not there before.  Black across my knuckles was the letters H-A-T-E.