glennr25
02-26-2014, 02:02 PM
Darkness is all I know.
Hollow.
Black.
Darkness.
The physical and spiritual kind. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun or felt the wind in my hair. Booked the place after beating a guy to about an inch of his life out in the yard. They call it solitary confinement, I call it the suicide box. Because a few days in this place and you’ll be praying to the prison gods for a quick release.
Oh, I’m also on death row, yeah, getting the needle in a couple hours for a double murder charge. Only thing is, I didn’t do it. Yeah, yeah, I know, everyone says that, right?
Difference between me and everyone is I’m telling the truth.
***
It all started when I was making my nightly run to the s**thole bar out in the boonies. Ain’t nothing special about the place. The same dirt bags showed up every night and did the same s**t—drowned their sorrows in cheap booze. After my wife left me for some hotshot business guy, I felt like being a dirt bag too, and there ain’t nothing better than being a dirt bag than being a dirt bag while in the company of other dirt bags. Made you feel like you were part of some f***ed up fraternity.
Anyway, I started visiting the place on the regular, got to the point where I didn’t even know I was doing it. Like a moth coming back to the same light every night only to get burned each and every time; it doesn’t know why it does it, all it knows is that there’s something more powerful pulling it in, something it has no control over. Until one night it gets too close and…Zzzzp—the moth is no more.
I was seated at the bar, on my third glass of bourbon, minding my own business, when some punk comes up to me and says, “You’re in my spot.”
At first I didn’t say anything, just turned and gave him a look that said “There’s plenty of seats. Pick one and leave me the hell alone.” But he didn’t get the message. I went to go pick up my glass from the countertop, when he reached over and grabbed it from my hand, downed the bourbon in one shot.
“You’re in my spot,” he said, placing the empty glass back down on the countertop.
“You’re going to pay for that drink.”
“The hell I am.”
All the pent-up rage I had bottled up inside of me came out in one instant. I picked up the glass in my hand and smashed it on his forehead. The whole place stopped. The punk went down holding his hands up to his head; blood seeped through his fingers. I was surprised he was still conscious after a blow to the head like that. He got up and looked at me with his good eye. “You sonofab**ch,” he said, “you’re gonna pay for that.”
“The hell I am.”
He left real quick-like. Everyone went back to their drinks. I ordered about six more myself.
Never saw the punk again after that night.
***
A few nights later I was at the bar, having my usual, when something on the TV caught my attention. I motioned over to the bartender to turn up the volume. Apparently, a woman and man were found dead in some house. Funny thing was, the house looked a lot like mine, and the woman, well, the woman looked just like my ex-wife.
I got in my truck and raced over there. The whole place was a madhouse. The bourbon in my system was mixing with the adrenaline spikes, clouding my judgment. If I’d known any better I would have been halfway to Mexico by now. Instead I flagged down an officer to get an explanation and he pulled his gun out on me.
And that’s how I ended up in here. The guy I beat the s**t out of in the yard told me why. Seems like the punk I smashed in the head with the glass is well connected, has an uncle that’s some big drug kingpin, controls the largest drug operation in New Orleans. Somehow they figured out I had a wife before, must have looked her up in the directory, kidnapped her, along with her new husband, and killed them execution style in my living room, planted the gun with my fingerprints and everything, even had a witness. Tried telling everyone I was setup, pleaded even. They ain’t listen. Said they got me dead to rights.
The cell door opens. Light engulfs the darkness. I put my hand up to shield my eyes. The warden comes in with two guards.
“It’s time,” he says and steps aside.
The guards put chains on my wrists and ankles and walk me down the long corridor to the execution chamber. The warden asks me if I want to dress up for the occasion. I don’t say anything. He takes that as a no and gives the thumbs up to the guards to get me on the table.
Once I’m on the table, IV in place, the curtains in the witness room are drawn back. I turn my head and look at the faces glaring at me. I recognize my ex-wife’s parents sitting in the front row, an older couple seated in the back that I figure to be the husband’s parents, and a half-dozen or so strangers. My own parents are nowhere in sight.
A man seated by himself catches my attention. He’s wearing a hat and has an eye patch over his right eye. He lifts his head up and winks at me with his good eye.
“Sonofab**ch!” I yell.
I watch him smirk as the curtains close.
After they calm me down with some sedatives, the curtains open again. The warden asks me if I have any last words.
I can only think of one.
“Justice.”
Hollow.
Black.
Darkness.
The physical and spiritual kind. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun or felt the wind in my hair. Booked the place after beating a guy to about an inch of his life out in the yard. They call it solitary confinement, I call it the suicide box. Because a few days in this place and you’ll be praying to the prison gods for a quick release.
Oh, I’m also on death row, yeah, getting the needle in a couple hours for a double murder charge. Only thing is, I didn’t do it. Yeah, yeah, I know, everyone says that, right?
Difference between me and everyone is I’m telling the truth.
***
It all started when I was making my nightly run to the s**thole bar out in the boonies. Ain’t nothing special about the place. The same dirt bags showed up every night and did the same s**t—drowned their sorrows in cheap booze. After my wife left me for some hotshot business guy, I felt like being a dirt bag too, and there ain’t nothing better than being a dirt bag than being a dirt bag while in the company of other dirt bags. Made you feel like you were part of some f***ed up fraternity.
Anyway, I started visiting the place on the regular, got to the point where I didn’t even know I was doing it. Like a moth coming back to the same light every night only to get burned each and every time; it doesn’t know why it does it, all it knows is that there’s something more powerful pulling it in, something it has no control over. Until one night it gets too close and…Zzzzp—the moth is no more.
I was seated at the bar, on my third glass of bourbon, minding my own business, when some punk comes up to me and says, “You’re in my spot.”
At first I didn’t say anything, just turned and gave him a look that said “There’s plenty of seats. Pick one and leave me the hell alone.” But he didn’t get the message. I went to go pick up my glass from the countertop, when he reached over and grabbed it from my hand, downed the bourbon in one shot.
“You’re in my spot,” he said, placing the empty glass back down on the countertop.
“You’re going to pay for that drink.”
“The hell I am.”
All the pent-up rage I had bottled up inside of me came out in one instant. I picked up the glass in my hand and smashed it on his forehead. The whole place stopped. The punk went down holding his hands up to his head; blood seeped through his fingers. I was surprised he was still conscious after a blow to the head like that. He got up and looked at me with his good eye. “You sonofab**ch,” he said, “you’re gonna pay for that.”
“The hell I am.”
He left real quick-like. Everyone went back to their drinks. I ordered about six more myself.
Never saw the punk again after that night.
***
A few nights later I was at the bar, having my usual, when something on the TV caught my attention. I motioned over to the bartender to turn up the volume. Apparently, a woman and man were found dead in some house. Funny thing was, the house looked a lot like mine, and the woman, well, the woman looked just like my ex-wife.
I got in my truck and raced over there. The whole place was a madhouse. The bourbon in my system was mixing with the adrenaline spikes, clouding my judgment. If I’d known any better I would have been halfway to Mexico by now. Instead I flagged down an officer to get an explanation and he pulled his gun out on me.
And that’s how I ended up in here. The guy I beat the s**t out of in the yard told me why. Seems like the punk I smashed in the head with the glass is well connected, has an uncle that’s some big drug kingpin, controls the largest drug operation in New Orleans. Somehow they figured out I had a wife before, must have looked her up in the directory, kidnapped her, along with her new husband, and killed them execution style in my living room, planted the gun with my fingerprints and everything, even had a witness. Tried telling everyone I was setup, pleaded even. They ain’t listen. Said they got me dead to rights.
The cell door opens. Light engulfs the darkness. I put my hand up to shield my eyes. The warden comes in with two guards.
“It’s time,” he says and steps aside.
The guards put chains on my wrists and ankles and walk me down the long corridor to the execution chamber. The warden asks me if I want to dress up for the occasion. I don’t say anything. He takes that as a no and gives the thumbs up to the guards to get me on the table.
Once I’m on the table, IV in place, the curtains in the witness room are drawn back. I turn my head and look at the faces glaring at me. I recognize my ex-wife’s parents sitting in the front row, an older couple seated in the back that I figure to be the husband’s parents, and a half-dozen or so strangers. My own parents are nowhere in sight.
A man seated by himself catches my attention. He’s wearing a hat and has an eye patch over his right eye. He lifts his head up and winks at me with his good eye.
“Sonofab**ch!” I yell.
I watch him smirk as the curtains close.
After they calm me down with some sedatives, the curtains open again. The warden asks me if I have any last words.
I can only think of one.
“Justice.”