Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV

[Depression101]

I heard a muted buzzing and felt like I was being sucked into the ground; gone forever, only a fossil on a rock. I was dissapointed when I found myself above ground. The air was warm and carried a light breeze. The sun was blazing and I sweated a little. It was good weather to die in. I pursued my lips and blew a little, but I couldn’t whistle; disappointed, I strolled out from behind the corner and some guard started yelling at me for “trying to hide my delinquent ass.” I apologized through gritted teeth and he smacked me for being “smart.” I felt like telling him to go and fuck his mother, but I thought getting stabbed by one of the gangs was better than being tortured by one of the guards. I said sorry in a more sophisticated way: I stood like I had a stick up my ass and yelled sorry at him. He measured me with a deadly glance and returned to scanning the yard for more victims.I pondered how it would feel to die when Big Bobby pulled me aside. He said, “Yo, look who’s here. Done sucking up to the sarge, sweetheart?”


“Fuck you,” I said. “I lost the shiv, no deal.” I breathed hard and felt tears trying to break through my eyes. I was thinking of my mother and how she’ll have to identify my corpse in the morgue.

“Whaddya mean, ya lost it?”

“I mean some motherfucker stole it from where I buried it.” I breathed hard and closed my eyes, hoping it would be quick.

“If you don't get me the fuckin' shiv, Jerry here will?” He said, simply.

They all looked left, at a bloodthirsty-looking Jerome. His nostrils flared and he bound upon me like a bloodhound and brought me to the ground. I felt blood well up in my mouth. I kept thinking, “God, let him kill me quick. Sweet relief. Let him make it quick. Sweet relief.” I really thought I was going to die.


“You double-crossing cunt! Piece of inbred shit! What’s this about getting him the goddamn shiv? You were meant to give ME the shiv. I already paid you, you swindling bastard.”

“No--” I said, he wrapped his hands around my throat and choked me. “I have another one here. But I lost the other one. I was about to give you both each -- I swear to God.”

“And I was to do what with it? Wipe my ass?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Lay off,” Big Bobby commanded, and obdiantely, like a lap-dog, Jerome leapt off. “Frisk ‘im,” Bobby said.

Dust from the ground blinded me and as I was rubbing it out two pairs strong hands seized me and searched me. They snatched my five bucks and my shiv. The two pairs of hands presented their new spoils of war to King Big Bobby, and he nodded approvingly. “I’m taking the money you owe me, and the shiv you owe me, and I’m giving Jerome the rest. Okay?" It was question, just not a choice.

The spectators disassembled and I was felt there alone, broken and worthless, wishing I’d die. If there weren’t a hundred and fifty daggers stabbing my head, then I’m a fucking priest, because that’s exactly what it felt like. With the sun burning my eyes and blood building up in my mouth, I felt weak, humiliated -- writhing on the floor like a worm.

“And now what the fuck do we have here?” A commanding voice boomed in my ear. “What a fucking lout you are, you piece of worthless shit. What, felt like having a little rest, eh? Or maybe baby slipped and got a boo-boo. Eh?” A volley of hysterical, disgusting laughter followed. I wanted to fucking murder those sergeants. Murder!

“Get up, you worthless piece of filth! And you’ll do fifty push-ups in front of everybody. Naked!” Another volley of laughter.

“Go fuck yourself,” I said softly. I didn’t have any strength left. I just didn’t care what happened to me. It was peaceful, lying there and seeing the sun’s glare fade out and hearing the sounds wane into a suppressed whisper. I screamed out in pain as a boot kicked my kidney. I snapped back into full awareness, the sun singed my eyes, and more boots clipped my side. The sergeants kicked the shit out of me. It hurts to just think of it.

“Get up!” They screamed, “And get naked!”

I forced myself up. “I don’t want to take my clothes off,” I said feebly, like a little child telling his mother he doesn’t want to go to school.

“Right then, we’ll take them off.”

Before I could protest, my clothes were being torn off. I don’t even want to remember that, it’s a prologue to rape. When they finished stripping me they ordered me to kneel and do a hundred push-ups. I knelt and lodged my hands into a solid position in the ground, then I positioned my legs out behind me; I let my arms spread open gently and I let my body glide to the ground. A whirring noise and a baton struck my back. I collapsed.

“Sweetheart, if we wanted a sensual show of those abs, we’d take you somewhere more private. Faster! Yeah, that’s right, go up when you’re little pecker hits the ground. That’s it.” A few people laughed; besides the sergeants, I mean. Most, though, didn’t care.

Rivulets of blood were leaking out of my lower lip. I was bawling. Not just crying like a baby, or weeping like a widow; no -- I was fucking bawling. Another baton hit the ground and brought forth a puff of dust which stung my eyes. “Now, stop crying or we’ll gauge your eyes out!”

The sun baked my back and I felt the sweat evaporating. I was about ten push-ups in, and I felt trapped: there was a demon inside. All my pain, torment, humiliation, and degradation gave birth to that demon, and, during my solitary years, I formed a bond with that demon, and it promised me freedom if I released him. But I didn’t have the key: I felt trapped, I didn’t know how to release all that anger and hatred. But I decided I might as well try. They took everything I had -- there was nothing to lose. As I was pushing myself up I sprang up, jumped, and landed a safe distance away from the sergeant closest. I spit the blood out of my mouth. I quickly seized my dick and started pissing on that son of a bitch.

“I did ya a favor last night, matey, I made you a little sister last night. I promise I won’t shove a coat hanger up there this time,” I yelled at the guard. I heard a whirlwind of commotion around me and about two tons worth of sergeants tackled me to the ground, and I blacked out.

I woke up in what I hoped was purgatory but what I thought was solitary confinement. Every inch of my body pulsated with agony whenever exposed to movement; I was reduced to sitting in one place for days on end. I felt a bandage mummifying my whole chest and belly. I touched my face and it felt lumpy and bruised. My respiration seemed labored and constricted. I worried about that the most, the rest I estimated where broken bones and bruised skin. The thorned whip of nostalgia tormented me most during those lonely hours. Nostalgia has a way of whipping you and inflicting a hundred smaller scars within the large one: I remembered good times and bad times, and I wanted to go back and re-live each one. It’s hard to explain but I longed for the kind of forlorn and forgotten familiarity which nostalgia conjures up. I wanted to go back in time and erase some days from history and extend others for forever. But I couldn’t do it. The past only exist to tease you. I become sad when I look back. I always want to change something. But I literally cannot, and that makes me feel powerless, small. It makes me feel worthless.

Even though most of my energy was sapped and I was in pain, I felt achieved. Happy. I did something great, I stood against the system and bore my bruises with dignity. My confined, dark cage might as well have been the peak of Mount Everest for all I cared. I felt like a victor.

Once every three days food was passed through a flap in the door. Moldy bread and expired carrot juice. Finally, after what felt like ten years, I was released.

After my exemption I was escorted to a door with a distorted glass window with the words “Col. J.S Ambers” stenciled on it in gold. The sergeant who was with me knocked thrice and a heavy voice from within said “Come in!” The sergeant swung open the door and pushed me inside. Stuffed deer, elk, and wolf heads decorated the walls, beneath each there was a photograph of the prize before a taxidermist got to it, and they were always accompanied by a man with a rifle; a bear rug was stretched taut across the gleaming oak floor, and I was facing an expansive spruce desk behind which sat a plump, broad-shouldered man with a receding hair-line and beaked nose; behind his head there were two bayonets crossed. The room smelled musty and old. The man bid me to take a seat. I walked up to one of the old leather swivel chairs facing the desk and took a seat. It was nice and comfortable. I put on a bravado, I was a little shaky on the inside but I just won an enormous battle and learned that I have nothing to lose.

“Would you like some tea, coffee, or maybe juice?” The man asked. I was afraid he’d poison me, but I was also raving for something warm and nice to drink. So I chanced it:

“Whatever you’re having,” I said.

“Well, then, tea it is,” the man said.

He stood up and went over to a counter on his right which I didn’t see until now. On it was kettle which was already steaming and a multitude of cups, boxes and cans.

“Flavored?” he asked; “Plain,” I said.

“You surprise me. A boy of your eccentricities would usually not stick with the dull, ordinary: plain,” Colnol Ambers said.

“Well,” I replied. “People aren't always what they seem.”

“Is that so? Last month’s stunt speaks differently of you. Oh, would you like sugar or milk?”

“Plain,” I said.

I stood up and walked around the room pretending to admire the pictures on the walls. Navigating my way so my back touched the table with the kettle, I diverted his attention to the stuffed bear head; and, with nimble hands, slipped a can Cremora into my pants and covered it up with my shirt. He was standing up and admiring the bear when I sat down. He came over and sat on the desk, looking down at me, and started again:

“Of course. What you did a month ago, you know, greatly upset the captain of guard who fell victim to such an animalistic assault and by no less than a protege of his. I checked your file. It surprises me that such a good boy would do such a preposterous thing.” He said it in a concerned but strong voice. I felt like throwing up when I heard him.

“If I was such a good boy I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“Everyone strays off the beaten track once in a while. Some more than others. Some just cannot and do not accept the Shepard's leadership and wrongly think they are smart and responsible enough to handle a cruel, tough world by themselves. You’re one of those people, Marlowe, and we are here to guide you. To help you. But we have to be rough. We have to put a foot down and put you in your place so we can help you, Marlowe. It’s a tough world and you have to learn that. You think you know pain but we’re here to make you realize you’ve got it good! There will be pain, there will be sweat, there will be torment, and there will be hardships here, you have to realize that, and you have to accept it and help us help you. Do you understand? Marlowe, do you understand me?” I must admit, that was quite a pitch and that was quite a spokesman. He was kneeling besides me now, staring into my eyes, and he clutched my wrist and shook it when he asked me if I understand. I threw his wrist off, and stood over him.

“Crystal clear, dummy,” I answered his question.

A hand smacked me -- “There will be no such talk in my boot camp!”

I just sat there. I was shocked: I didn’t even flinch. My cheek stung but I didn’t mind.

“I will let you go now, but do not even dare step outside the line. Don’t you even think of thinking about looking outside the line…” He paused. I think the idiot wondered if that even made sense.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Go, and stay out of trouble. Or you won’t know what hit you.”

They lead me back to my cell and I kept wondering whether all my thing would be there.

“New rule, maggot," The sergeant escorting me said; "doors are locked after lights out. We had a wise-guy who tried to escape through the vents out in the hallway. Now we spray some mustard gas through there in short bursts at night. Got the governers own signature on our little project.”