County

Dedication

Dedicated to all those that face

their demons and prevail, finding

liberation and happiness of spirit.

To the four whose blood runs deep,

who never faltered in their resolve

to stand by my side, forgive, and love.

The providers of healing hope and

courage to find the light in the darkness.

Acknowledgment

As with any story, or with the telling of a tale, the characters often begin well before the manuscript is put into words and grow during the manuscript’s conception and beyond. These characters may be real or fictional in our lives that have had some influence that made us who we are today and guide us as to who we will become, sometimes without our understanding or acknowledgement and quite often in ways that we never expected. It is also too often that we forget to acknowledge and thank those in our lives that have carried us through the worst and best of times, and so it is with great pleasure that I conscribe those to words who have helped me and sacrificed for me so that this novel and myself were able to grow and be nurtured into their full potential.

Without failing, my mother, father, sister, and niece have stayed at my side during this journey. There really are no words to convey the understanding, compassion, empathy, love, and courage they have showed me not only during the creation of this novel, but throughout my life and continue to be the most promising of brightest lights surrounding me. As well, I must give great notice to my aunt, grandmother, and grandfather, who have moved on beyond this mortal existence but whose character and strength of spirit still guide me even today.

Another brave soul that has entered my life unexpectedly and that very often and quite possibly I do not give the proper acknowledgement to is Amaury T., an extra ordinary fellow who has helped me over the years not only in the creation and feedback of this novel, but in challenging me to become a better individual by questioning my own faith at times when the room was dark and he unknowingly has a way of staying bright. I hope that he too finds the path that he was meant to walk as I have and I have the deepest of gratitude for him as a close and long-time friend.

Others worth mentioning during the creation of this novel who influenced and guided me in some notable way, sometimes not always positive, but their negative feedback and personality traits have also directed me toward the path needed to accomplish my goals and were inspirational to my writing and that never-ending struggle for ascension to better all aspects of my life. Thank you to Jared W, Andrew H, Marlon M, James D, Renz T, Kristopher R, Wendy, and Celestino who helped me during a time of great strife, who believed in me and gave me opportunities at a time when I had none. Another noteworthy mention is for a prominent teacher and counsellor, hailing from a poor southern African-American family who has risen above to become known as Dr G, her lessons abundant with tough love, unrelenting with the truth, and determined in her methods, but who also shows great empathy, compassion, and understanding to help those she counsels face their demons and take a good look at who they are and who they want to be, showing us how to be that person, not only through her teachings, but through her example. She is an amazing person of faith, hope, and perseverance to so many.

Thank you to all for your help and guidance. Life can be a struggle in so many ways, but it is a wonderful gift if we only stop for a moment to look. Every day is a lesson to be the most that we can be and achieve, and the good also comes with the bad. The balance between the two depends on us. It is our choice on how we perceive the world and change it to make a better home for all of us.

I would also like to mention several authors and their writings that have helped me in the creation and development of this novel while also contributing to my personal growth and beliefs:

The Dalai Lama’s Cat – David Michie

Wherever You Go, There You Are – Jon Kabat-Zinn

The Undefeated Mind – Alex Lickerman, MD

The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression – Andrew Soloman

Finding Hope When Life Goes Wrong – Wright, Woodley and Woodley

You Are a Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life – Jen Sincero

The Road to Character – David Brooks

Chapter 1

He burdened no understanding to how long he had been sitting there, staring blankly at the white cinder blocks in front of him; while a numbness settled in his back against the cold, clammy wall.

Clocks did not exist here.

Purgatory was four walls, dim and desolate, vibrating with despair, every inch of concrete sweating with angst and filth. The air tasted of burnt sugar, bitter to the tongue and had lost of all its sweetness. Such is life, trapped between heaven and hell.

The two-foot slit in the rear wall gave sight to pipes, concrete and insulation of a narrow service corridor; a single bulb swung from the ceiling to light a maintenance worker’s way. It was the only view to remind Dylan that there was a world, the free world, just beyond those walls.

The free world, thought Dylan, shaking his head in disappointment. No one is ever really free. Even in the outside world. It is only an illusion as our lives continue to be more and more frequently directed by the gods and goddesses of the powers that be around us. Invading every nook and cranny of life until nothing is left of our true selves except the world wide web of what we believe life to be.

Governments blindly followed; relied on to care for us, show us right from wrong tainted with bias, corruption, and greed; placing their pawns, bishops, and kings to obtain the new world order with hidden agendas, proclaiming the rest of us expendable and sacrificial.

The workplace—colonized by those of authority and status, misuse their positions of power to control how we manage our personal lives; determining concern toward our physical, mental, and emotional well-being by our efficiency, productivity, and profitability mutating us into the mindless walking dead that obediently work and live on minimum wages so that our bosses, supervisors, and corporate puppeteers collect their yearly bottom line bonus.

There are the pillars of civilization we erected and marvel at in all its glory. With social media and materialism propelling our day-to-day successes and achievements—congratulated by how many accepted friend requests can see our minute-by-minute status updates in order to give our lives value and important cultural significance.

Dylan’s last girlfriend, who held nothing of substance or any meaningful emotional support he could rely on, would begin her typical superficial morning post with something akin to: Hey, look at me in my newest selfie! I just got a double, no whip, half-caf, half soy, 1% grande chocolate hazelnut, easy syrup mochaccino with light foam, one sugar, one Sweet ’n Low and a cinnamon sprinkle!

I’m so special. Next time I’ll tell them there was a hair in it and I’ll get it for free.

Like so many, using our misguided notion of entitlement to establish empowerment by having control over others.

God, what a bitch. What was I thinking! he said to himself, spiked with resentment and antipathy.

And of course, there is our never-ending quest to emulate and conform to our perceptions of high society. Coveting the latest and newest of everything while showing off the sexiest body with the perfect fake smile. Indulging our fantasies and defining our existence by the utter nonsense and ridiculous substandard content of reality shows—which is anything but reality.

In the end, the only significant thing we think we learned and understand is, that we don’t have enough. ‘If I had that, I would be happy.’ So … Is this freedom? Ignorance really is bliss.

Dylan reckoned it had to be near nine in the morning. Not knowing for sure. It was as though he had been sitting on his bed for hours when it may only have been thirty minutes. What did it matter really? He was tired, drained; his heavy eyelids begging sleep that would not come in the chaos surrounding him. His fingertips were bloody from nail-biting anxiety and bald patches of hair above his eyes from nervous eyebrow plucking.

He figured that the young black kid in cell five who had been chanting for nearly thirty-six hours was the target of Frank’s rantings.

Shut the fuck up! You’re a moron! Frank was in cell one.

The chanting was no known language Dylan could discern but the kid was always handing notes to Dylan asking if the spelling was correct. None of which resembled any past or present cultures’ recognizable words known to the world. But who was Dylan to say so, although by the sound of the words this kid was chanting, he didn’t think it at all surprising if it was completely imagined and made up. He was unquestionably in one of the psych pods located in an obscure end of Marion County jail.

The jail was originally built in the 1930s, with new updated wings and facilities constructed over the last few decades. The old sections of the jail still used doors made of steel bars that are manually opened and closed; so, an inmate was literally locked behind bars—bringing to mind the iconic black and white striped uniforms worn by the offenders that occupied the jail. Chain gangs were often used back then to clear the open countryside for roads, farmland, and construction sites to build new homes and buildings. In those days, Marion County was more rural, the country landscape filled with fields of tall Grass, wildflowers, and forest, the surrounding towns small and sparsely populated. Other than the railroad that ran next to the jail, there were few roads in which to travel by. Over the years, towns grew, more and more people settled the area, businesses prospered and Marion County had become the wealthiest county in the state. As the countryside around the jail became thriving communities, with ever-expanding cities and towns, the jail expanded with them.

Jail grounds now consisted of an entire complex that included the courthouse, probation offices, circuit clerk offices, and services for the public. A monument to society’s law enforcement and oath to protect and serve the surrounding communities; a pinnacle symbol of criminal justice and corrections. The jail, as far as anyone on the outside was concerned, was a place for the drug dealers, thieves, murderers, deviants and degenerates.

Just on the other side of the railroad tracks was still some natural forestation and wilderness, more a small preserve than the wild as homes were on the far side and around its perimeter. The Red Caboose, an old country store and café, an established landmark since 1924, stood near the tracks for weary travelers; now frequented by the deputies of the jail and police officers to shoot the shit. Regardless of urban myths about cops and donuts, the café was loved by locals as the place to relax with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and a slice of homemade pie, baked daily. If pie and coffee weren’t your thing, the towns around the jail held some of the best barbecue joints and drinking holes in the state. The connecting country store to the café; once a stop for farmers and cowboys to pick up grain and feed, saddles, work digs, tobacco, and groceries, had kept its charm by staying true to its original purpose.

Within the jail, inmates were housed in what were called pods. Each pod contained eight to sixteen cells placed end-to-end along one side of the pod. Sixteen cell pods had a lower level and an upper level accessed by stairs—eight cells to each level. Inmates commonly referred to themselves as being ‘On Deck’ with one another. Every floor of the jail other than the first, had three wings made up of three contiguous pods in each wing. At the center of all three pods was the guard station labeled—the bubble—a hexagonal faceted glass, metal, and concrete observation center for the deputy or CO—correctional officer, who is the watch supervisor on duty.

In addition, there were pods fashioned dorm-style, where the inmates were housed in one large room with ten to twenty bunk beds lining the walls. Of course, there was also segregation or Seg, medical, receiving, and psyche. At its maximum capacity, the jail could hold 1,000 inmates and never much privacy wherever you were housed. Anyone could walk by at any minute while you were in the middle of taking a shit.

Dillon’s pod housed eight inmates, each with their own individual cell, where many of the cells in other pods were two-man cells. Dylan was in segregated psych of section A located on the first floor, or basement. Pods were all designated by letters of the alphabet. C-pod, X-pod, R-pod, and so on. Dylan was in cell 118. His housing designation Sec A—T—118.

In most pods, the space located in front of the cells is referred to as the day room. The day room had two or four small metal tables with round metal seats connected to the underside of the table’s support pole. Everything was made and constructed from metal or concrete, any glass or windows from shatterproof glass.

His ass was always hurting and sore, his bed had only a thin plastic covered foam pad that rested on a slab of concrete, thereby not doing much for comfort as a bed. The concrete slab was poured in the shape of what appeared much like a coffin Dylan thought. A deathbed would seem fitting for a jail. At least, a coffin would be padded and comfortable, you would be dead but in eternal comfort. Dylan was beginning to think of his cell as a living tomb, one that was designed to accustom you to the torments of hell and the underworld.

The color scheme was that of institutionalized beige, white, and gray. One small 18-inch television was mounted on the wall at one end of the day room, while two phone booth style phones were located at the other end of the room on the opposite wall.

The inmates in Dillon’s pod were allowed out of their cell one at a time for a period of thirty minutes to watch television, shower, or walk around and stretch their legs. The cells measured only eight feet wide and twelve feet long with maybe a twelve-foot ceiling, leaving not much space to walk or get any real needed exercise. The psych pods were always on lockdown whereas the upper-level pods were given longer periods of time in the day room. They were also given the luxury of gym time forty-five minutes a day, Monday through Friday.

Fluorescent lighting was the only source of light in the lower-level pods with no natural lighting. Cells on upper levels had windows with views to the outside. Lights were never turned off, only dimmed during night lockdown from 10:30 pm until 4:30 am when they were turned up again for breakfast. It always appeared grimly darker and foreboding down in the psych pods.

Food, clothing, or any other needs were exchanged through a small rectangular opening in the cell door known as the chuckhole. Because Dylan and the other inmates around him were in a psych pod and in continual lockdown, they would only receive what they needed through the chuckhole.

Your—ass—is—grass! resonated through the day room, emanating once again from the guy in cell one.

Christ, shut up, Dylan whispered. God help me, he said quietly, lowering his head in a notion of prayer, biting his lip, fighting the lump in his throat and the tears welling up in his eyes.

He closed his eyes, looking up toward the heavens.

Why is this happening, I don’t understand, he said.

His head slumped back down, his chin to his chest.

How am I going to do this, I’m so sorry.

He raised his head, opening his eyes, hoping it was only a nightmare and everything around him would dissolve back to the recesses of his mind.

Please forgive me. Please forgive me, he said pleadingly, slightly rocking back and forth, shaking his head and placing his hands over his eyes, rubbing away the tears as they started flowing.

It wasn’t only God he was asking forgiveness from, it was everyone, his family, the world. How could he do this? How could he do this to them? How did it happen?

He fought to stay in control of his emotions, lifting himself off the bed, feeling the numbness in his legs and ass, tingling and prickly as blood coursed back into the muscle and skin. Dylan walked toward the metal and glass pneumatic door to have a look at Frank, the crazed lunatic in cell one who was aiming the expletives at the young kid in five to shut up.

Dylan was mindful to not touch anything more than was necessary. The walls were caked with filth as was the door. Even the floor and ceiling had modeled and smeared stains of which he didn’t want to give too much thought to, or analysis as to what they were, or where they originated from. Littered among the cell, written or carved into the walls or frame where various messages, names, or pictograms of the male anatomy sort, or swastikas—James luvs Michelle—suck my dick—white power—Jesus loves you—there was street graffiti and most likely gang affiliations, and so on. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, looking out to the dayroom from behind the glass window of the door.

His head was racing with thoughts and images, creating confusion and chaos making it difficult to concentrate. His skin was flushed and warm, his stomach spinning, heart beating fast with the surges of adrenaline pumped through his body by anxiety and fear.

Yelling and loud sounds sent Dylan into a panic response. It was heightened panic as if someone, or something was after him, wanting to hurt him and make him suffer, backing him into a corner with no escape. A flood of overwhelming emotions churned within him propelling a flight response, to run away and hide. It was a paroxysm of fear and worry that he would be hurt, not physically, but emotionally wounded by fatal blows against his worth and value.

Frank was standing behind the door of his cell, full Monty, with all this junk hanging out on display, a big beer gut and his fists clenched at his sides, staring at the floor while the obscenities flowed from his piehole like water from a garden hose. Frank had a big, black bushy and unruly beard which only the hair on top of his head could surpass. It looked as though squirrels were making a nest in there, Dylan thought.

The cheese definitely fell off this guy’s cracker, Dylan said whispering.

Frank was mad as a hatter and vicious angry like a Tasmanian devil. In fact, Dylan took notice that he in ways resembled the Tasmanian devil from Looney Tunes cartoons, in appearance and temperament.

Yet, there was a soft sadness in his face, the wrinkles and valleys of lines around his eyes hinting to the notion of a difficult life, a hurtful life. Frank’s eyes showed defeat and despair. Dylan couldn’t help feeling some empathy for the man, a sadness about what may have happened to Frank that precipitated his behavioral outbursts and the emotional strain behind them. Something Dylan could relate to.

Dylan was troubled by the uncontrollable, intense and overwhelming whirlwind emanating from deep within. Like magma bubbling under a volcanic fissure, ready to erupt and flow without warning or explainable reasons. It just happened. An ensemble of emotions flooding his mind and senses. It was a chorus of angst, sadness, hurt and anger fueled by feelings of worthlessness, despair and hopelessness.

At times, the mere glance of a stranger, the tone of their voice, a sound, a thought; would trigger cascades of emotion followed by tears. Fear and sadness lived at the forefront, with its neighbors: guilt and loneliness. Embarrassment, shame and negative self-image is always there, lurking in the shadows.

Dylan was trapped, nowhere to go and no escape. Avoiding a situation or person meant fleeing from conflict. Not only in the physical sense but retreat and hide from the emotions felt by tucking away the pain with denial. If he didn’t allow himself to get too close, then it wouldn’t hurt him.

He often remained at home, not even venturing out for the natural instinct to eat and find food. It was safer that way. No circumstance or person could trigger the sadness because he couldn’t be what he thought everyone wanted him to be. It was emotional suicide to tolerate the beast of it.

He was alone and lonely. Betrayed, used and discarded, then kicked to the curb by others, would turn to a bottle of vodka to escape the hurt and pain he felt. Sometimes it was shots of whiskey, beer, or all three until he found numbing oblivion or inebriated Nirvana. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered except his escape from reality. No one cared, so why should he?

The door hissed and slid open with the ringing screech of metal against metal. Dylan jumped at the sound. I hate that door, he thought, eyes narrowed, he would never get used to it. Dylan’s turn to use the day room.

He walked into the room with trepidation, arms crossed to protect and detach himself from the surroundings. The smell was sharp. A putrid stench of urine and feces filling the ambience; combined with a pungent, musky odor from the inmates who hadn’t showered in months. Dylan squinted his eyes, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he tried to breathe, the noxious smell almost suffocating. The air raised goosebumps and the lugubrious nature of where he was loomed with the inevitable electricity of fear, the tension of anger and hostility hung in the balance.

As Dylan reached the television, located adjacent to Frank’s cell, he noticed Frank facing the small shelf on the wall that held some greeting cards, one of which was a spiritual card of sorts he reckoned since the cover had a picture of a woman in a soft, powder blue gown, a shawl of the same light blue covered the brown curls of her long hair, her skin ivory, her cheeks blushed, and her head bowed in penitence and prayer. A halo and the heavenly rays of light emanated from behind her—the blessed Virgin mother. He was haphazardly standing among the disarray of papers and other belongings.

Frank was speaking in a hushed voice waving his arms around animatedly as if having a deep, intellectual conversation with an ethereal being. Occasionally bending over with fits of laughter sharing a private joke with a good friend. He would look up with a smile toward the card—Dylan assumed he was speaking to—asking questions, having a dialogue, sometimes pondering an answer with a shake of his head indicating a yes or a no. At times during his conversation, he would turn his back to the shelf and grab a snack off the table behind him. Littered with pieces of food and half-eaten meals, the paper trays they were served in tossed to the floor and scattered about with abandon, collecting in the corners of his cell with mounds of garbage.

Dylan turned back to the television attempting to bring as little attention to himself as possible remaining unnoticed, particularly from Frank. Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Hey, Frank said facing forward, a hawk’s eye directly on Dylan, a broad smile planted across his face.

Hey, come here. He motioned with a hand for Dylan to come closer.

Dylan raised a finger indicating to Frank to wait a minute.

Aaaagh, come on, said Frank in a sonorous, raspy voice.

Whatcha puttin’ on? Frank said while standing in front of his cell, still in all his glory.

I’m not coming over there until you put some clothes on, or at least your shorts, Dylan said with a slightly turned head toward Frank but remained staring at the television.

Aagh, come on, said Frank in a long, drawn-out voice, a tinge of annoyance at the tip of his tongue. You never seen a naked man before? Come here, I gotta ask you something.

Dylan walked over with his arms crossed protectively, his head turned downward at the floor.

What’s up? he said, putting an arm forward with his palm facing Frank to cover Frank’s baby maker from his eyes.

Frank had hair everywhere and it was like watching Bigfoot in captivity.

As Dylan reached Frank’s cell, Frank asked, What are you here for? Kid porn or something?

No, answered Dylan. Aggravated DUI, he said hesitantly, the crazy standing before him who was now scratching his crotch and pulling on his balls. Dylan turned, walking away, shaking his head with rolled eyes.

Hey. I gotta tell you something, Frank said with wanting appeal.

Keeping his back to Frank, Dillon said, Not until you put some clothes on.

Frank began mumbling under his breath; something which sounded much like curses and complaints, occasionally turning to say a few words to the greeting card. He doubled over with a high-pitch, hysterical, cackling laugh from some obviously ridiculous commentary that Dylan wasn’t privy to but only to Frank and his card.

Pulling his shorts up, Frank looked back to Dillon, then back to his buddy on the shelf and said, Wait, wait a minute.

Then turned back to Dylan.

Hey, what’s your name? Frank asked.

Dylan.

Come here, come here, I wanna ask you something.

Dylan walked slowly keeping an eye on Frank’s body language and facial expressions trying to figure out what his intentions might be.

Reaching Frank’s cell, Frank turned his head back to the shelf mumbling inaudible words, then back to Dylan. In mid turn, he snapped his head back over his shoulder.

Aagh shut up, he yelled with obvious annoyance as if someone was pestering him incessantly.

This guy really is nuts Dylan thought, wide-eyed with raised eyebrows.

The police stop you?

Ya.

Where?

Just north of here in Bramington.

O yeah, yeah, where at? Frank asked enthusiastically.

Jefferson Street by the Ford dealer.

Making it up as he went along, Dylan was advised to not speak with anyone about reasons why he was here. He didn’t want someone like Frank having knowledge of his life anyway.

Oh, Frank replied disappointedly. What happened?

I was heading home from a friend’s house and the cop pulled me over, answered Dylan elusively.

What they do? Frank asked with squinted eyes under narrowed brows, voice inquisitively suspicious.

The cop came over, asked me why he was pulling me over. Dylan shrugged. I told him I didn’t know, then he asked me to get out of the vehicle with my hands in the air and stand at the back of my car, hands on the trunk. He patted me down then searched my car.

What? They can’t do that, Frank said in a rancorous tone to his voice.

He began taking a stance of hostility, going into a tirade raising his voice increasingly as he went on.

These guys think they can do whatever they want, they’re dog meat. That’s what they are. Stopping people and arresting ‘em for nothing, puttin’ us in jail. Ya, ya, we’re in here while they go home at night and drink a beer and eat real food while we get this shit and they sleep in a real bed. They’re dirt!

Frank’s voice reached a fevered pitch of antipathy toward authority figures.

Ya, they think they can do whatever they want!

He was getting fighting mad with spit foam shooting from his mouth like a rabid dog, angry brows and lips in a snarl.

Ya, it’s all a conspiracy, he yelled. All these government fucks, they want all your money is all.

Directing his eyes to the shelf he spit.

Their—Ass—Is—Grass! Aagh shut up! Frank said turning back to Dylan then again snapping his head back to address the shelf. I said, shut up!

This is the United States of hell! That’s what it is. He continued. Ya, they think they can do whatever they want.

Dylan gave in to a quick half grin and chuckled slightly at the sight of Frank. It was a show of superfluous intimidation and comedy rolled into one very humorous spectacle.

Is this guy for real? He looked on astonished.

These bastard pieces of shit, yeah that’s what they are, Frank said. Ya. They put us in here to rot and take all of our money. It’s a scam that’s what it is. They don’t care about us, ya, it’s the United States of hell! They can’t do this!

Ya, said Dylan nodding slowly in agreement, raising his eyebrows. Yup.

Dylan didn’t know what to do or say actually, and concluded that agreement with Frank was probably the better course of action.

Frank turned wildly walking toward the other end of his cell where the sink and toilet were, head down, grumbling madly.

Dylan saw his escape and turned away back to the television. There was nothing really of interest that caught his attention as he flipped through the limited channel selection. The room felt dim, murky. Like he was in the bowels of a stone castle where the dungeons were located, the air damp and chilled.

Frank was pacing in his cell, quiet for the moment.

Dylan made the supposition that Frank’s greeting card had nothing to say or discuss for the time being, but at least Frank was hushed in minding his own business.

That didn’t last long.

Hey, come here, he said, rapping on the cell window.

Not now. I want to watch TV a bit.

Put on the church channel.

I don’t want to watch church.

Come on, what do you mean you don’t want to watch church, Frank said looking at Dylan with bewilderment.

It’s church, he said, a little hostility rising in his voice.

I want to see the news, said Dylan glancing over at Frank who was glaring at him now, his eyes squinted and his mouth hung open as he stared at Dylan.

Why don’t you want to watch church? It’s good for you.

Ignoring Frank, best he could, Dylan didn’t answer, imagining that he was someplace else while Frank and the rest of it didn’t exist.

Come on, like you haven’t seen the news before, Frank said antagonistically. It’s the same thing, people killin’ each other, the world’s goin’ to hell, ya, there’s no rights anymore, the cops do whatever they want and take all your money. Look at that cunt bitch on there, she don’t know anything, she’s goin’ to hell like the rest of ’em, she’s a moron. No one deserves to live on this planet, all these sissy cop bitches, I’m gonna kill ’em all. You’re a moron! Don’t want to watch church, what kind of a Christian are you? Don’t you believe in heaven and the angels! That there’s an afterlife.

Frank’s eyes were daggers, his nose wrinkled in anger as spit flew from his mouth. A banshee, a demon from hell and likely possessed. Dylan thought that at any moment Frank would start climbing the wall and walking on the ceiling upside down and backward. Maybe the CO should call for a priest.

You’re goin’ to hell like the rest of these morons, ya, straight to hell. I don’t watch church, he said sardonically.

Your—Ass—Is—Grass! I’m gonna get a gun and shoot all these bastards, every one of ‘em, right in the face, they don’t deserve to be here on this Earth, rottin’ pieces of shit. They’re dog meat, they’re all goin’ to hell, ya, puttin’ us in here to rot, takin’ all your money, making us look like animals, this whole world is going to hell, ya, they’re all bitches, ya, little bitches, they think they can do whatever they want!

Dylan watched in shell shocked awe at the unbelievable sight that was unfolding in front of him. This guy was unreal.

Frank’s demeanor and attitude suddenly changed to one of frisson.

Hey. Hey, listen, listen, he said jumping up and down clapping his hands, giggling in excitement. Hey, these cop bitches are fucking these judges in the ass, ya, ya, hahaha, and the state’s attorney is suckin’ dick, hahaha, ya, haha, and then the judge sucks the state’s dick, hahaha, ya, they’re all havin’ a three-way.

He began pacing his cell again, head down, mumbling incoherently, then laid down on his bed facing the wall, legs bent with a foot wagging back and forth.

The unexpected sound of the CO over the intercom flooded the day room causing Dylan to jump, his heart racing.

Cooper. Time’s up, said the disembodied voice that seemed harsh and reprimanding through the speaker.

Dillon lifted his hand in the deputy’s direction with a gesture of understanding and headed back to his cell, anxious to get away from Frank and seek refuge. While crossing the room, the guy in four was standing on his bed watching him. He was wearing a towel tied around his head like a bandana, his pant leg rolled up with another towel tied around his right thigh just above the knee.

Dylan tried to remember his name, Riley? The CO had called him. Riley was possibly a schizophrenic, or at least what Dylan thought one might be. He had never met or seen a schizophrenic before, but Riley seemed to have his own ideas of reality. Riley wore a short goatee that he was incessantly devoted to grooming and would stand on his bed admiring his body, flexing his muscles in front of the small rectangular mirror screwed to the concrete wall.

Riley was a little guy, around five foot six, maybe twenty-four years old, lean, tone, and muscled but looked as though he may be slightly malnourished. Not a bad looking guy Dylan thought and wondered how Riley had ended up here.

Riley would talk to himself, but not speak much otherwise, and was never loud or yelled unless upset or provoked. While Dylan watched him in passing, Riley jumped from his bed to the mattress he had thrown on the floor of his cell.

One of Riley’s favorite pastimes was to toss the mattress around the cell, hold it up against the walls, throw it on the floor and jump from bed to mattress.

He ran to the door placing his hands, palms forward against the glass, and softly asked Dylan, You have anything to eat?

Dylan shook his head. No, sorry.

Riley dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups. He looked like a soldier that might be seen in a military documentary of the Vietnam war.

Dylan reached his cell and walked in, the door immediately slid close behind him with a hiss, psst, like the air being released from a tire when checking its pressure with a pressure gauge.

He felt safer in his cell with the door closed, no one could get to him, and he could ignore everyone and everything as much as possible. Lunch would be coming around soon, usually around 10:30 in the morning, not quite lunch time in the world, but then again breakfast was at 4:30 in the morning.

Until then, Dylan lay on his bed curling up under the blanket pulled over his head, removing himself from his miserable existence. If he couldn’t see it, then maybe it wasn’t there.

His thoughts revolved around family. Mom and Dad, sister, and his niece. Dylan helped raise his niece once his sister’s scumbag husband bailed after she got pregnant.

He thought it worked out for the best, not only for his sister, but with the guy out of the way he had the opportunity to help raise his niece. The best part was that he was her uncle. He could have all the fun and not worry so much about the correction and punishment part. It was great.

He missed her terribly, even more so as she had just started college. Law school of all things. How’s that for irony? He was so proud of her, and sad that he was missing this new beginning in her life. Dylan wanted to feel as though his niece was the closest he would ever come to having a daughter. The pained truth and reality of it however, was that he was never there for her in the ways he wanted to be, or should have been. The deep regretful river of it constantly bore down on his conscience.

Dylan closed his eyes and cried. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

The tears turned to sobs, rolling down his cheeks as he lay alone, under the blanket. His heart shattered from the thought of hurting them. He missed them so much the pain pierced his soul. It hurt more than anything ever experienced. The emotions flooded overwhelmingly through him. He wanted to die.

How could I do this? How did this happen? I hate myself.

During the first week of incarceration at the jail, Dylan was in disbelief and shock as to what had happened. He was numb and unconscious to everything around him, void of feeling, but now realization and awareness was setting in. while in receiving and during the classification process, Dylan requested to be put in segregation. It wasn’t just the nature of his crime, but that he could not be near or tolerate others with the heightened anxiety and fear he was experiencing.

The classification team consisted of a doctor, a psychologist, and a sergeant. The classification process was used to identify inmates that had similarities with each other so that they would be placed and housed in the proper pod.

There was general population or gen-pop, medical, psych, segregation or seg, recovery pods, alternative pods, and pods for any female inmates located in a separate area of the jail, for obvious reasons. Classification was based on answers to question such as sexual preference, involvement in gang activity, health or medical needs, interaction with other people, any response to situations with anger or hostility, age, and of course the charges from which one was incarcerated for.

Dylan had no gang activity in his life, never hurt or fought anyone, in fact he rarely ever became angry or even argued with anyone. He was easygoing, accepting of others and overall, a calm and peaceful person. Dylan would fit right in on a beach in Hawaii living a surfer’s life, hangin’ loose. He was charismatic, always fun loving and compassionate. He had his moments as did anyone, but he was never violent in nature. The thought of actually hurting someone was beyond his grasp. Since an inmate’s charges were always taken into account and his case was considered to be high-profile, this would also determine where he would be placed within the jail.

Okay, we’re going to put you in general population, said the sergeant after questioning Dylan.

Dylan froze with panic. He had seen what general population looked like from all the popular jail and prison television shows, and thought that he had a good understanding of what that situation would be like, the same as anyone else in the world that had never been to a jail or prison or knew anyone that had. His heart was racing and his mouth went dry, he could barely talk.

Dylan felt the fear rise within him. No. I can’t.

Why not? asked the sergeant.

Because of my anxiety, I can’t be around other people right now and my charges.

Well, once you get moved you can always ask for segregation if it’s not working out for ya. Normally we would place you in alternative pod housing but that’s not available at this time.

Can I ask for segregation now?

After a slight pause, the sergeant looked back up to Dylan once finished with the paperwork in front of him. Yes, we can go ahead and do that.

Dylan gave a small sigh of relief and later that day was brought down to one of the side pods.

During classification, Dylan referred to himself as bisexual since he had had relationships with both men and women that went beyond family, beyond friends, and beyond platonic. Dylan based his attraction to another person on common and stimulating interests; that they could share the company of one another and feel completely comfortable, laugh and cry together, enjoy all the little moments and the big moments, share likes and dislikes without judgment, hold each other up through times of sadness and worry, have a nurturing, caring, and supportive concern for each other, be the best of friends and close companions with an emotional awakening not felt with acquaintances or casual friendships. Be there for each other through thick and thin at any cost. Dylan’s physical show of sexual attraction toward the other person or the act of sex itself came from the emotional and mental pull he felt for the person he was developing a relationship with, not whether that person was a man or a woman; it was the communion with another soul.

As Dylan grew older, he found himself more comfortable with male companionship. It was more of a male bonding thing. Something about an inner need for close friendship with another man because they can understand each other only as another man could. Sharing the good and worst of times, tackling struggles together and being there through life when faced with fear and death; goin’ fishin’, drinkin’ beers and whiskey, standing by each other’s side, like the bond soldiers developed for one another in times of war and that warriors developed during dangerous hunts in times of survival.

Living south of the Mason-Dixon in the country away from urban areas and larger cities, born and bred in a small town like Bramington made it difficult to get too close to a good buddy. If their horseplay or interaction, even just hanging out gave the impression of something sexual, you could be branded a fag. Not the best of things when surrounded by a town filled with church fairing folk that lived by the Bible and it’s word, or it seems their interpretation of the good book since there was half a town of hypocrites that used the Bible in church to hide their sins.

People would point a finger of blame faster than you could shake a coon from a wagon rot if they were in danger of having their extracurricular activities or sinful behaviors discovered.

As an adult, Dylan eventually made his way to Knoxville for the opportunities and possibilities it offered to a homegrown country boy to make something of himself. In hindsight maybe it was not the best of decisions, he thought, but Dylan wanted something bigger and better for himself and his family.

Dylan always felt uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he didn’t belong, the sense that he was never the person he should be or wanted to be and was always searching to find himself. Opening himself intimately to others might only create an opportunity for emotional hurt or abuse, so he had an inclination to distance himself, hiding the confusion of self-identity and self-worth, always looking to be, act, dress, and think in the way he thought others wanted him to be.

He was always good-hearted, happy, loving and a carefree individual, laughing at his own blunders and never taking things very seriously. It took a lot to push his buttons, but he hid the depression, the hurt, and the constant turmoil within. He couldn’t make sense of it or understand it, it was just there, always diminishing his spirit through the negative self-worth and self-image of who he was. He wasn’t acquainted with what it was like to be himself, to love himself and have respect for himself. Just when he thought he was uncovering his true self, he felt beaten down and disappointed when someone was critical about some aspect of himself or that they were disappointed in who he was; especially when he was his true self, showing love and kindness from his heart unconditionally and selflessly when helping others. It was only a matter of time that someone would knock him back down again, reject him, discard him like a piece of trash thrown out the car window and left to sit in the gutter amongst the rest of the garbage, showing him that his love and heartfelt kindness was no good, and thereby he was no good. He felt like the tissue the world used to wipe its ass.

To cope, he would remove himself emotionally and physically, which, over many years, became an unconscious and unaware response that others viewed as narcissistic, which only made Dylan more confused and unwanted, that no one cared when all he ever wanted was to help others, make them happy, feel loved, and thought of.

What Dylan didn’t realize was that he was not only removing and distancing himself from emotional conflict with others, but with his family as well, and that divide only strengthened as Dylan got older. He never wanted any disconnect or divide between him and his family. The wedge struck in Dylan’s relationship with his brother, his twin brother, was one of discord and misunderstanding that continued to grow worse over the years. Dylan had not spoken to his brother in nearly seven years. Dylan and his brother Jesse were fraternal twins and growing up Dylan always thought that him and his brother would be inseparable, always there for each other no matter what, through good times and troubled times, and always be the other’s backbone and defender, each other’s Batman and Robin. They were conceived and nursed in the closeness and darkness of the womb. Other than their mama, the first heartbeat they heard and the first touch of another human soul was that of each other’s.

Dylan had created a dystopian view of the world and wanted no part of it, he wanted to change it. The last time he spoke with his brother, they had had an argument, probably about something ridiculous and just another misunderstanding, Dylan didn’t remember, only that his last words to his brother was to never speak to him in a demeaning and reprimanding tone that always made him feel worse of himself and more worthless. Looking back, his brother was most likely only trying to help him, but Dylan had taken it as another attack and criticism that he wasn’t as good as his brother. He hung up the phone after that and they hadn’t spoken since.

Now Dylan’s arrest in all the shit that came with it had made things worse. Dylan was arrested once before when he was younger for driving under the influence of alcohol. No one ever in the history of the Cooper family had ever broken the law, to say nothing of being put in jail. Dylan thought of himself as the black sheep of the family and couldn’t help thinking now that his relationship with his brother was fractured beyond repair and that they would never see or speak to each other again. To make things even more complicated, his brother was a county sheriff.

Dylan viewed himself as pathetic and nothing less than a complete failure. He couldn’t do anything right. His lip began to quiver and tears filled his eyes. Dylan felt lost and had no idea of how to find his way. Everything was a railcar out of control and his mind was overrun with thoughts of his family and the disappointment that must be etched in their faces at what he had become.

He looked in the mirror, his face gaunt with deep black circles around his eyes as he wiped the tears out of them. Dylan was always comely with breathtaking looks, he never believed or accepted that, he never thought that he was ever attractive enough. He had straight, jet black hair that hung over the top of his ears and fell down the back of his neck below them, slightly curling at the ends. Often, he would simply throw on a baseball cap and go. Many times, he used his caps like a security blanket, it made him feel safer, covering up and hiding his insecurities and faults to onlookers eyes and judgments, without them he would many times feel naked and exposed.

Dylan had light hazel eyes that were speckled with gold and always seemed to catch the attention or gaze of passers-by or whomever he was speaking with. He was thirty-eight now and still very handsome, maybe more so now that he had that thirty something age under his belt, but he kept a young and playful air about him. He was lean and tone, around six feet in height with a medium sized build. Other than a small patch of hair on his chest; that women loved to play with and would follow down to the happy trail on his lower abdomen just under his naval that led to, well, happiness. He would usually keep a five o’clock shadow that gave him a masculine, rugged working-class look about him. He always was a good-looking man and kid, no GQ model, but grabbed your attention when you saw him and when he smiled, you wanted more.

He hated the orange uniform that everyone had to wear day in and day out. Orange pants, orange shirt and a white t-shirt, the back of the shirt plastered with Marion County jail in big black letters just in case no one here knew where they were or that he was an inmate.

It was quiet for the time being. The black kid in cell five was still and had stopped chanting. He seemed like a good kid that maybe got himself in a little trouble and Dylan couldn’t help thinking that if this young guy had some mental disorders or issues, he may not be fully responsible for whatever he was in here for. He looked scared Dylan thought, like a dog picked up from the streets and put in an animal shelter. They all felt like that and were all afraid, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Cells two and three were occupied by two older gentleman, maybe in their 50s or 60s. They didn’t speak much and kept to themselves for the most part. The guy in three was Walter. He stopped by Dylan’s cell when it was his turn to be in the day room. He was a polite and soft-spoken man, and wasn’t that concerned about where he was from what Dylan noticed and they exchanged brief hellos and how are ya’s. Walt asked Dylan what he was here for and Dylan said he didn’t want to talk about it.

That’s okay, said Walt.

Do you mind if I ask you what you’re here for.

Dylan leaned into the crack between the door and the window frame, it was easier to hear one another.

Rape and murder, Walt answered nonchalantly with a shrug of his shoulders.

I’m sorry.

Dylan had his head down not knowing what to say in response. He had never met anyone charged with rape and murder. Walt didn’t appear the type, considering his age and temperament.

He must have noticed Dylan was a little wide-eyed, shocked, and continued, Well, ya know, it’s from a case around thirty years ago when I had done some time when I was younger, so, I don’t know, they found my DNA or something, so ya, who knows.

How long have you been here?

About three months.

Oh, said Dylan, apologetically.

Ya, so you know, Walt said hands clasped behind his back, he turned and walked away continuing his stroll around the day room.

The inmate in six was a guy that never showered and the smell that was emerging from his cell could burn the hairs from your nose. Dylan had never smelled anything like it and reckoned it would be like pus ridden, bacterial fungus infected feet and a combination of shit, piss, and a yak that got caught in the rain. No one knew his name so everyone referred to him as six. He looked like a Taliban or Jesus figure with a long black beard and long hair that reached his shoulders. He was thin but not quite emaciated, but close to the pictures Dylan had seen of the poor souls in countries suffering from famine.

The only pair of clothing he wore was a brownish—what used to be white, pair of underpants that resembled some decrepit relic, long ago buried and dug up by archaeologists. His shorts were so large and stretched out that they barely hung over his hips and looked as though he was wearing a diaper. Six would wrap his head and upper body in a blanket or sheet in a way which gave him the appearance of a Bedouin living by some remote Oasis, in a tent somewhere in Afghanistan or Saudi Arabia. He often wrapped himself from head to toe while lying flat on his bed and gave the eerie impression of a dead body wrapped in a shroud. The only time he spoke was if someone was in the dayroom, and he would stand in the corner of the door frame whispering obscenities laced with professor level vocabulary about the word of God and the apocalypse. Other than that, he seemed fairly harmless.

Two minutes until lockdown, announced the deputy in the bubble.

Dylan put a piece of paper on the ledge of his window with the word—RAZOR—spelled out so that the deputy would know that he needed a razor in the morning to shave. It was the only way to get a razor and when finished it needed to be returned before breakfast arrived. It was a cheap disposable plastic razor, and needless to say, after the third or fourth day it was like using a butter knife over sandpaper.

Dylan lay down on the bed staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped over his stomach. The deputy came by for the first of his nightly rounds, usually every twenty or thirty minutes in order to make sure that everyone was all right and not doing anything that they shouldn’t be. He rapped on the glass of Dylan’s cell.

Cooper, you alive?

Dylan lifted his head slightly to look at the deputy, signaling that he was alive, very much to his own misfortune.

The deputy went back to the bubble, switched the television off and dimmed the lights to begin night lockdown. That’s also when the antics began. It was like being in a zoo and all the animals went wild, howling and wailing, pounding the walls and tables, rap songs filling the air from the wanna-be vocal artists and gangbangers, then of course the obscenities and colorful metaphors flowed and billowed from across the entire psych wing. He didn’t understand the effect of dimming the lights signifying night lockdown had on the inmates, compelling them to act up and perform as if they walked on stage before an audience. Dylan turned and faced the wall, placing a washcloth over his eyes to block out the remaining light, his hands between his legs, his knees bent and pulled up like a sleeping babe. As he tried to ignore the mayhem, and focus on getting some sleep, his last thought was, I am dead, and this is hell.

Chapter 2

Dylan could sense the change of brightness in his cell as light penetrated his eyelids. When he opened them, the light from above was blinding. Using his right hand to shield them from the bright light, he tossed his blanket to the side and swung his legs over the side of the bed just as the deputy from the bubble was at his cell door. He opened the chuckle and placed a razor on the ledge along with a small packet of shaving cream, turned, and walked away.

Expressionless, Dylan lifted himself from the bed, went to the door and grabbed the razor and shaving cream. Walking back to the sink, he pulled his uniform shorts and T-shirt up over his head tossing them on the bed. He had fallen asleep in his uniform again, as he did most nights, no point really in getting comfortable for bed.

He pushed the hot water button on the sink, reddish-brown water spitting from the faucet with a foul sulfurous order drifting upward. Dylan turned his head back with repulsion, grimacing. His mouth felt dry and pasty; nearly two weeks in jail now with no cup or anything of which to drink from.

He brushed his teeth sparingly, maybe only three or four times since he had been locked up, given only one small tube of toothpaste that might be used in a travel bag for a weekend retreat, and a small two-inch toothbrush when he arrived. With that, his bedroll that consisted of two small hand towels, a washcloth, and a pair of bed sheets all rolled up in a standard issue gray blanket.

They didn’t hand out more toothpaste if you needed it, so he had to get money on his books—that being an inmate’s jail financial account—then it would be possible to order the items and things he should have to be civilized, particularly hygiene. Everything was ordered through commissary or store as they called it, but first he would need to get in touch with someone from the outside for help. With no phone numbers on him at the time of his arrest and, his phone confiscated and put in property; there was no other means of which to contact family or anyone else for that matter. Mail would be an option if you only had paper, pen, and an envelope which needed to be purchased.

After the water cleared, he reached down, scooping a handful of water in a cupped hand bringing it to his mouth. He choked, trying to swallow water that tasted as though it had been sitting at the bottom of a well for the better part of a century; regardless he took more handfuls into his mouth. He was thirsty; dry, parched lips peeling from the jail air and dehydration but the water felt refreshing as he drank and splashed his face clearing the sleep from his head.

He needed a shower desperately by the slightly ripe smell floating off him and the residue of oily sweat on his skin. Gazing into the mirror, he realized it had been a week since and he didn’t like much the idea of using the pod shower since no one cleaned it unless a trustee was asked to come in and do so by a deputy. A trustee was an inmate allowed to work in the jail, usually in the kitchen or cleaning and janitorial services. Trustees could be spotted by the tan shirt and blue pants they wore rather than the ever-popular orange on orange fashion statement that was the jail’s ‘in style’.

The last time he used the shower, the floor was writhing with small needle-like black worms that were coming up and out of the drain. They were the larvae of sewer flies. That explained the small black flies swarming