Chapter 57: Chapter 57

Chapter 57 I've made friends

In eight hours, I would die. Life would cease to exits for me and I will be plunged into a sea of ink.

But let's go back in time before the hours leading up to my death. The years dragged by painfully slow. Three long years, behind the bars of my destruction. All the three years seems to have blended together. Everything was the same when I think back into the past.

I am now twenty-four years old. I have toughed up a bit, but I guess prison life will do that to anybody. I look and act more like a criminal every day, and that's what scares me. I don't want to be like the others. I don't want to be like the others, in which most of them have no sense of morals nor do they care.

I cuss more. I carry more anger and rage within me. I channel that anger to other prisoners, and whereas I used to cower back from fights and avoid them, I now willingly involve myself in them.

I've made friends.

But not good friends.

Just like old times.

Every single friend I've had in my life meant nothing. They abused the title of friend and used me for it. They used me for my popularity, wealth, and now drugs.

That's right, my new friends use me for drugs. Somehow, someway, some of the prisoners have drugs that they have smuggled into the prison.

And I am the main dealer.

Horrible, I know. I hate myself more and more every day for it. I tell myself that I want to get out early on good behavior, but I know if that I keep this up, that I will eventually get caught.

And then I won't get out early.

It's horrible being so miserable all the time. I guess that I can't help it when my future which once held sunshine, holds absolutely nothing now. No family, no friends, no dream job, no mansion.

Guilt will be my only company, and even now, it still is.

My family nor friends never visited me. Not once. And that hurts, a lot. I feel cold on the inside. Bitter. Angry. Upset. So many emotions about the fact that my family doesn't love me. That my family chooses their precious image over their own daughter who's rotting in prison for her own fault.

And maybe I deserve this, I don't know. It's just that every time I close my eyes I see the little boy's face. He's everywhere. I see him. My eyes don't even have to be closed and yet I can still see him.

In fact, he's standing in the corner looking at me right now as I sit in my bunk. He never leaves. He just watches and follows me. He speaks no words. He's emotionless besides his eyes.

He's bloody and he looks exactly like he did that fateful night when I pulled him from the burning vehicle. The hallucinations have started long ago, but I am too afraid to tell anyone lest I be thrown into a mental institution.

But what I do know is this:

His appearance is slowly driving me to insanity. I can't take it. I can't take his large eyes filed with pain and innocence staring at me all the time. Because he reminds me of what I did, and the guilt gnaws at me.

Sometimes, when my cell mates are asleep, I smash my head against the cold, concrete wall of the cell until I fall unconscious. I think that maybe, there's something wrong with my head and maybe, if I smash my head hard enough, the little boy will disappear.

But when I wake up in the morning all I have is a horrible, swollen gnash on my forehead. It's bloodied and it looks like I've been bludgeoned with a metal pipe. I simply tell the guards I fell off of my bunk and hit my head.

And they believe it.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is is that the boy is still there, peering at me with eyes of innocence.

Sometimes I talk to him, because I'm lonely. But of course, he never responds back, which makes me crazy. Hell, I am crazy, and I hate it.

Sometimes I think about killing myself. I'm a coward for thinking such a thing, I know. I deserve to be punished for my actions, not take the easy way out. But death tempts me so. It's so enticing with its unknown aura.

Will there be a light? Or will there be just darkness? How about heaven, is there one? If there is, is it a field of vibrant wild flowers and sunshine with peaceful music filling the air? Or is it a golden city in which everyone lives in harmony?

Do horses gallop gracefully on the crystal, sandy shores of eternity, the salty ocean mist spraying into their manes as their hooves pound with thunder against the ground?

Is there a hell where all evil doers are thrown into the lake of fire to burn for eternity? Is there an unquenchable thirst for water and yet, you cannot drink? Are there demons to carry on the torture and do with you whatever they please?

Even in death, uncertainty remains. Even in death, I cannot rest.

But even now, death seems like a better option at this moment. And looking at the little boy, standing in the corner with hauntingly innocent eyes, makes death even more enticing.

No matter how much I scream at the boy, he won't leave. No matter how much I beg the boy to talk, he won't speak.

And I'm done with it. I'm done.

Is it wrong to be okay with dying a coward?

* * *

In eight hours, I will die.

It's weird knowing exactly when death will meet me, in a way. I no longer will be behind these bars. I no longer will eat nor sleep. I no longer will fight or see the outside world. I will be cutting off myself from my family completely.

And oddly enough, I am okay with it.

I glance at the little boy in the corner of my cell.

And that's when I know that I'm definitely okay with it.

On the first hour I finish up lunch, my last meal. I eye the cafeteria and watch as the prisoners interact with each other. I study the guards in the corners of the room, with their stone cold faces and their straight posture.

I turn my attention to the barred Plexiglas window. I study the way the bright sun washes out the sky, making it a pale color. It has lost its vibrant color of blue long ago, I'm assuming from the smog the nearby large city produces.

I will never see beauty again.

On the second hour, I was released into the courtyard for the last time of my life. I sit down in the same, cool corner I have been sitting in since the day I got here. I again, watch as the prisoners form teams for basketball and shoot hoops in the rickety, rusty baskets with no net.

Some of them get rowdy and push each other around. And like nearly every day, a fight breaks out, and the guards are forced to separate the perpetrators.

And then I wait.

I wait for my "friends" to show up and give me drugs. They should be here any minute. And sure enough, the three women, two with black hair and dark skin and the other with chocolate hair and tan skin meet me.

They quickly touch my hand, where they deposit the drugs and give me an order on where and who to give it to. I nod my head, and casually walk across the asphalt, careful not to catch the eyes of the guards.

This will be my last drug deal.

I give a blonde, older prisoner in her late forties what she wants. I hand her the bag of white powder, in which she greedily takes. She was a heroine addict, but any drug will help sate her needs.

On the third hour, the bell was rung. It was time for the prisoners to go back in their cells until dinner time. My eyes took in the dead landscape around me and I decided that this was something I wouldn't miss.

But as I was walking inside, I halted, and looked up at the sun that was hanging high in the sky. I said a silent goodbye to the sun.

Because I would never be seeing it again.

On the fourth hour, I mindlessly stared up at the ceiling of my cell. My cell mates, the same ones I've had for three years, flip through magazines and take naps. My cell mates and I still didn't get along, we never talked but glared at each other.

They were in prison for I don't know what, but rumor says one of them murdered their boyfriend while he was sleeping for his life insurance.

That certainly didn't help me fall asleep at night, but I had a hard time believing it. Would they really put a murderer in the same room with others?

Wait....

You are a murderer, too. My subconscious reminds me. Unfortunately, my subconscious was right. Unfortunately.

On the fifth hour, I went to dinner. I was served sloppy meat of some sort, probably the leftovers of a cow, such as the ground up intestines, hooves, and ears, as the meat was always chewy and had crunchy, hard bits in it.

It tastes just as horrible as it looks, but it does the job to fill my stomach. I certainly would not be missing the meals here, that's for sure. There was a lot of things I won't miss in this life.

On the sixth hour, my heart ached with anxiousness as I built up the courage to go along with my plan. I was back in my cell, as were my cell mates. But they didn't matter. My mind was set on death and I have known for awhile now exactly how it will be done.

My hand rests on the rickety bar of my bunk. The bar had been damaged and was broken off long ago. The sharp, jagged end had been carelessly duct-taped back together, but I can easily tear the duct-tape off and dismember the bar.

My weapon of death.

On the sixth hour, I cried for the first time in three years.

I cried for the choices I have made.

I cried for the lives I have taken.

I cried for the life I once lived.

But is no more.

I cried just because it felt good to get all my pent up emotions out. The tears soaked my pillow as they dripped down my face. I thought back to the happy times filled with joy and love. I thought back to the happy times when I just learned to ride my bike (with training wheels, of course,) I thought back to the time when I bought my first hamster named Jimmy.

I thought back to the times when I spent Christmas with my family. I remember the large meals, the presents, the joy. I remember the smell of cookies baking and the laughter my family produced.

I remember the pretty colors of the Christmas tree and the family home decked out in Christmas lights. I remember everything. Every little detail.

On the sixth hour, I quietly unwrapped the duct-tape and disconnected the ragged bar from the bunk. It made a little sound as I did so, but my cell mates didn't care what I was up to.

On the sixth hour, I gained the willpower to finally kill myself and end it all. Warm tears dripped down my face and my hands shook as I aimed the sharp metal at my wrists. It was dimmed in the cell so my cell mates couldn't see what was going on above them.

On the seventh hour, I plunged the metal two inches deep into my left wrist. I bit my lip hard to conceal my cries of pain as I forcefully dragged the bar up to my elbows, creating one long, deep bloody line.

My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I couldn't even hear how loudly I was breathing. So loudly, in fact, that it alerted my cell mates. I heard voices. Yelling. Loud. Obnoxious. Painful.

And then I screamed as I slammed the metal end into my right wrist, and I only made it halfway up my arm when guards grabbed a hold of me. I cried hysterically as the jagged metal weapon was ripped from my hands.

My freedom was gone in an instant.

Blood was every where, but I couldn't see much as the tears blurred my vision. I had finally lost it, and I thrashed around like a wild animal. The guards forced me from my cell and I was pinned to the ground.

I felt dizzy and I watched with glee as my life blood poured from the deep wounds. Surely, I had severed a major artery, as great amounts of blood was everywhere. I was drenched in it, as was the guards holding me down shouting at each other in loud voices.

The guards, four of them, held me down and my eyes widened in terror as I caught sight of a needle glistening in the light.

They forced my arm palm up and I watched as the needle sunk into my arm. My head lolled to the side, my body feeling weak from blood loss and drugs.

On the eighth hour, the sea of ink drowned me.