Block B1R

This is it… I am dead.

Aren’t I?

I see the light that they all mention....The Bible thumpers mostly.

The light at some tunnel after death. It’s getting closer, or am I getting closer to it?

My head is throbbing. It feels like miners have been boring out a hole in it, prepping for the time, to drop a stick of dynamite in.

Fuck , why am I feeling anything right now?

I thought when you died, you never felt anything?

Isn’t that the appeal of death?

My Wrists… my God, the pain. I don’t want to be dead. Not like this.

I hear what sounds like a siren , or maybe the sound of forks grinding against each other, if they were thrown into a blender. The screech of bats as well....

Overlapping with the sound of my own voice in my head. Wait!

If I can hear my thoughts then,.....

“Hatchett! Hatchett! Mr Hatchett!” screams out at me.

"God?" I ask.

“You wish boy” , I hear .

That's when I came to.

I can see.

Blinded with swirling arrays of black, but Yes!

I can see .

Am I alive?

Each wrist , feels half numb , from the pressure causing this pain.

But why?

Looking down to where my hands would be, I see nothing.

Then I realize…… fuck ....I realize , that my hands are not there.

Before I have the time to fear the thought of having no hands,

I realize , I still have them

They are behind me .

Cuffed.

“Well, Mr Hatchett ? Do you have an attorney?”, My ringing ears ,start steadily hear.

Moments later, after guessing my way through questions, that i am asked, we start walking.

We leave the room ,

to enter a long cold concrete hall, decorated with steel.. The lights blind and burn the leftover remains of my pepper sprayed eyes. 

We stop , and the C/O turns to me . His breathe smells like rust and rotten onion, and what reminds me of exhaust from an old Subaru i used to drive.

He says “Welcome to Block B1R” and I feel the handcuffs release as I hear the door slam. 

I am not dead, but I am in hell.

-Day-0.......

Ninety two days and Twelve hours, in a cold cage. A box for misfits. Ninety two days , I am sentenced to serve. 

According the guards , since I arrived here after twelve, this day doesn’t even count. Imagine that.?

Eleven hours on the wrong side of the clock , isn’t enough for them to mark down as a day. Goddammit. 

 I try to not get angry.

The system does what it wants .

The cell isn’t much. Nothing to write home about. At least with any pride.

There’s six beds and six of us. One toilet connected to the sink. The shower, shouldn’t really be called a shower. It’s about as clean as a hookers sweaty ass crack. Then there’s the window. If you can even call it that. It's the size of a rearview mirror, at best.

I count to myself..

Five. Ten. Two. One.. 

I observe. I’m good with numbers. 

Five cell mates.

Ten eyes, glancing in my direction.

Two voices carrying on, over a game of cards.

I take it all in. I count .

I count my environment.

This will be my ONE new home.

I don’t speak to anyone. Not yet. A fellow in the corner is stacking up paper and what looks like Raman noodles. He lifts his head up, not only to acknowledge me, but to size me up.

He points to the opposite side of the cell . There’s an empty bunk. Top bunk. I notice a man sleeping in the bottom bunk.. I take my blanket, move my feet , and slowly creep up to the top . 

My back against the wall, I sit up on my bunk.

Quiet.

But listening.

I make it a point to hear everything around me.

I hear them talking about me. 

The guys at the table playing cards, make a small fuss as they slap down the cards. Laughter, and the words "fuck" and "yo" , are floating throughout the air. I see the short guy that was playing , has apparently lost. Now he’s telling the others to " back the fuck up yo" and to give him some room. He starts doing push-ups. The others are yelling the numbers as he does this.

 All except for the dark skinned fellow with the long dark hair. He just sits there emotionless shuffling cards waiting for the push-ups to be paid in full.

“You want to play”? He asks me. 

“I have a gambling problem” ,

I lie. The man puts down the cards and starts fooling around with his long braid. “ We only play for coffee and tea”.

He nods his head towards the guy on the floor, and says, “and sometimes pushups”. 

I continue to lie. “I don’t want to relapse” I say . Humoring myself. 

He looks at me without any emotion. The rest of the guys are in the background hooting and howling calling the guy on the floor a pussy. As he

struggles to finish the last few, the lights dim to a low bright.

Then things get quiet.

I don't sleep .

Not even a wink.

By the time this morning started creeping up on the ugly reality I know I am in, i dully sunk it all in.

I considered last night ,the longest night of my life. They must be doing rounds or checks here , throughout the night. The noises from the gates, and buzzers, and locks , haunt the halls systematically. 

Everyone is asleep and the room is still. The wired little window gleams a little sun onto the wall. I wish it would gleam a highway behind me, as the mirror would do.

A loud electric motor noise , echoes somewhere near. The other guys slowly start to move around. Vibes fill the inactivity and none are good. The sounds of the others ,envelope the space. Men with anger. Men with dread. Men with desperate regret. (Years later, I will be haunted with these feelings and sounds)

A squeaking sound starts not too far away. It stops and rolls its way closer to us. It’s the cart bringing breakfast. ‘CHOW’S Coming’ somebody calls out. 

 I Climb down from my bunk, and gasp as I step on the man below.