Fuck me, this is the hardest thing I’ve done physically and mentally. You’d think slicing your own vein would be an easy task for a cold-blooded assassin, but I had no idea.
I wasn’t exactly given a choice. Had to improvise, find my method.
Been locked up in this barred, one-man shit-hole of Lastimar State Pen so long, I’ve lost track of time. Most inmates count the days, but I don’t give a damn. You can’t quantify pain. Every day is a fucking lifetime.
At first, considering the amount of cases the prosecution had against me, everything happened fast—the pre-trial procedures, my lawyer’s plea, and the jury’s verdict. They rushed it ’cause they wanted to see me locked away and gave me solitary confinement for life. Times the number of people I’ve killed.
Life. You know what that means for a guy like me. It means death, a slow, painful death. The worst kind of torture, way worse than execution.
I’m tired, can’t take any more.
I know why they put me away. I don’t necessarily agree with their methods, but I understand their reasoning. Society needs to be purged of cockroaches, of vermin. If not, it succumbs to anarchy. When a gang leader, whose web of crime spreads with the speed and sneakiness of cancer, is caught, he must be disposed of and left to rot. I get that.
But why the solitude? They won’t let me see anyone. Max security, fucking lockdown. I’m placed so far down the row from the other inmates, all I can hear is occasional yells of frustration or boredom. The guards check on me every half hour, day and night, banging their metal bats against my cell bars. Those blood-freezing sounds are my only company. Fucking routine, making sure I can never sleep. And aside from the regular bad-mouthing, the guards don’t talk to me.
A priest came here to talk once, wanting me to spill my guts and thank Jesus for generously forgiving my sins, but I told him to get lost. Don’t need no interference from above.
The only person I see is my lawyer, a scared little shit awarded to me by the state. Totally worthless. You hear about the powerful crime lords paying the best lawyers and getting good deals negotiated. Me, I’ve been so effectively kept away from the outside world, I haven’t been able to influence anyone. And who from the outside could help, anyway? My whole gang was dismantled; either locked up or dead.
All I’ve got to keep me company is a mattress, a blanket, and a hole in the concrete floor. Nothing else, like we’re not human enough to have rights on this row. Guess they worry we’ll get a little suicidal and use any available tool to harm ourselves… Damn right.
Luz, I miss you! How are you? They won’t tell me anything, and it makes me love you that much more. I think about you all the time and recall how you were, replay the things you did. Like that trip in the forest, one of our first days together. You drove your bike so fast, your cheeks were pink and your eyes bright and sparkling with excitement. You were so full of life, Sweetie. I just had to have you ‘cause I knew you’d save me.
Being told I’ll never see you again wrenches my heart so bad, I want to tear it out with my hands to ease the pain. How can it be possible? We were meant for each other, as one, a unity, and being apart wasn’t in the cards.
The first time I asked that prick of a lawyer when you would visit, he said you’re on the Witness Protection Program. But that don’t make no fucking sense. They’re protecting you from what, from whom? Me? You’re my girl, so what the hell is that about? He said the authorities gave you a new identity and moved you to a secret place so we’d never be in touch.
As if I could get out of this dump. No one ever escaped Lastimar.
But you know … I could survive having my freedom taken and let the hours and days and months pass one by one, little by little. Chain-smoking, staring at the small window with the steel bars high up on the wall, attentively tracing their details so they’re etched in my mind. And the dirty wall with the scribbles and spots of blackened blood and hair from previous inmates. The rough cement floor with the dark hole in the corner, emanating decades of piss and shit. The old mattress; holed and spotted with all kinds of bodily fluids. I’ll spare you the details. That’s what I lie on, day in and day out. Withering.
I can survive—out-live—all of that, but then you got to come see me, Baby, come talk to me. How else can I go on? I can’t. Not without you, my sweetie, my love, my sunshine. You’re all I have left. If I could see your pretty face and sparkling blue eyes and cheeky smile just once, I’d be fine. If you looked me in the eyes and told me you can’t stop thinking of me, it would be plenty to resist for a long fucking time. Months, years. I’d have dreams, and time would pass at my own rate, at my own speed, at the pulse of my own fucking will.
When the lawyer told me “no,” I didn’t believe him and laughed like the naïve retard I am. “Yeah, asshole, very funny, love the joke. Now cut the crap and tell me when I can see her.”
“Tomor,” he replied, with that pathetic, wimpy smile of his. “Forget it, she’s not coming. Not now, not ever. Get that idea out of your head, ‘cause it’s not gonna happen. Forget about her. That’s the best thing you can do for yourself. Let go.”
Well, Sweetie… I won’t allow them the pleasure of seeing me slowly shrink and turn to dust. I’ll beat them to it, do it myself. Death doesn’t scare me.
I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve already slammed my forehead against the wall to break my skull open. Like Jackal did in the container after he kidnapped you and I beat the living shit out of him. Remember? Sick fuck, spilling blood and brains all over the floor. But me? I didn’t die. I passed out.
And I’ve garroted my throat with the blanket, too. Only when I lost consciousness, the tourniquet relaxed, so my survival instinct kicked in and the cocksuckers put me on a goddamn suicide watch.
The only method left is tricking my brain to shut down. But there’s no magic way to convince those high-tech grays to turn the lights off at will, so, instead, I’m going to lose a few liters of blood. When the brain senses the lack of blood, it’s programmed to concentrate on the vital organs by cutting off the circulation to the body’s extremities, and if the bleeding continues, it shuts down the organs one by one.
Don’t have much time, gotta be efficient. In the past weeks, I’ve let the nails on my right hand grow and chewed them into hard, sharp needles. I’m using the thumbnail, as it’s the largest and strongest one, and if it breaks, the four other nails are ready to take over.
I’m going to carve a big enough hole in my left wrist for blood to continuously seep out from the punctured artery. Problem is, if it doesn’t bleed fast enough, the guards are gonna stop my plan before I’m done. That’s the major stress factor. I only have half-hour gaps between their rounds. So, in case it takes too long or I pass out, I’m going to hide under the blanket and pretend to be asleep.
Sure, there’re other options like setting my cell on fire, but they’d be quick to put out. And if I starved myself to death, you can bet your ass they’d force-feed me.
Ironic, isn’t it? The authorities want the outside world to forget about my existence, but they’ll do anything to keep me alive.
Copyright @ 2019 Lea Bronsen