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

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Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV - Depression101 - 05-22-2017 05:53 AM

(The title will be updated with further parts, which will be posted in the comments.)

The first thing you would want to know is how a guy like me ended up in a place like this: how an amiable, quiet kid came to be humiliated and tormented by a bunch of low-life scum at some labour camp. Unlike Holden Caulfield, I’ll start my story with what happened after I got imprisoned in a mental institution. It started with how I needed an escape from school because of the hell I underwent there; and since I couldn’t get my hands on drugs, I resorted to cutting myself. Slashing your wrists is a bad idea. It’s a habit hard to hide, and there are better stimulants. My mother discovered my secret and she ended up talking about me to the principal who recommended counseling. I was shaky because I heard about the corruption of mental institutions in the last century, but I thought things improved after countless inquiries. Boy, was I wrong. It was horrible. Just fucking horrible. After I was force-fed pills that warped my mind, but still resisted the system, the big-wigs there convinced my mother that she should send me to one of those boot camps; I don’t actually know the name, but you know those places where these hard-assed military fucks yell at you and make you run marathons with fifty-ton bags. When I arrived there, I cried. I remember being hugged by mother and it making me more sad. Then she assured me it was for the best and all those falsely-comforting lies you tell your friends if their have cancer or something.

The camp was an imposing structure: a chain-linked fence, ten foot high, ran along two acres of bleak grass; squatted in the centre of the field, there was a square stone building. Adjacent to that building was a tower, also stone. There were only two colors: green and grey. Both bleak. I got out of the car and my hands shook as I trudged towards the evil idol looming on the lifeless field. We went into the building and I took a seat in a stiff chair as my mother went to the counter. I held my bag in my hand. I packed two pairs of t-shirts, four pairs of shocks, a pair of shirts, a black tie, two jeans, two runners, and some underwear, when it comes to clothes; I also packed a toothbrush, toothpaste, a golden watch, and a book they wouldn’t be opposed to when they looted the luggage -- I correctly assumed they did that.

My mother knelt beside me, kissed me and told me she’ll see me soon and to stay strong. Great fucking advice!

This fucking beefcake came up to me and starting barking these commands, for me to follow him, telling me that I was late. I don’t remember him barking at my mother that she was a lazy bitch who couldn’t read a wrist watch. You’d assume I did the fucking driving. I was dragged into this assembly hall where the lights were dim and the floor dirty. It was overflowing with people, mostly tattooed freaks with pink mohawks. We all sat down on the floor, looking up onto a stage where another beefcake in military clothes was yelling at us:

“Here, your ass belong to us. You eat when we tell you, you drink when we tell you, you piss when we tell you, and you shit when we tell you. Here, it’s either ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’, no degenerate slang. By the end of this you will be sculpted into model citizens, and you will look back at the scum you where and warn your grandkids against it. You will go through hell -- absolute hell. No doubt about that. You will cry. You will scream. You will try to rebel. But when you do, and you will, you won’t know what hit you. We’ll break your ass, but we will re-shape it into something better. Now, remember, we do this for your own good; so comply, and we’ll get along just fine. Capiche, sweethearts?”

I dug my fingernails into my legs until they bled slightly, because I was sort of crying. I usually like to think of myself as a tough guy, with the weight of the world on him, kicking ass and taking names, but, really, I’m a weak, sensitive bastard, afraid of these things. Then we were yelled at by another military guy, and it scared me a bit. I have been shouted at before, and I grew a tolerance, but this was an alien place, alien people, all of them big and hostile. We were lead into this room which was basically a stone rectangle with two levels, connected by stairs, where each wall was lined with doors. I watched The Shawshank Redemption(and read the novella) about five times, and this place reminded me of that cell-block. And that’s why I started shaking and breathing frantically. I searched the crowd for someone whom I could relate to, but I was the odd one out. The rest either had long hair or no hair, all wore leather jacket and spiked boots, and all them laughed and joked and spat everywhere; I was really starting to get a heart attack when this one guard came up to me and said to follow him. He lead me to cell V(or five), and said this was my room. They called them “rooms” but they were “cells”. He had a notepad, and said he was assigned to me. He said: “You seemed to be a good kid. Strayed off the beaten path, heh? Not to worry, we’ll beat you back onto it”

He then snatched the bag out of my hand and ripped it open, and, with a couple of vicious hand movements, my equipment was strewn all over the claustrophobic room. There was nothing in the room but a bed, a toilet and a small desk; granted, there wasn’t room for much more. He picked up my book, A portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, measured it with his eyes, and flipped through a couple of pages, looking for swear words or hidden drugs, or something. He was evidently disappointed when he found nothing taboo. “If I hear so much as a fart in here after lights out, you’ll be doing push-ups until day-break, you hear me?” He screamed as he started to go out. All I could manage in my shaken state was to say “Yessir” with a squeaky voice.

“Oh, you’re a little bitch now that, huh? Gonan cry for mommy? A little too late now, don’t you think? Shoulda considered it before you acted out like a delinquent. We’ll make you love school by the end of this!”

He shut the door and I was left in the dark. After five minutes a dim overhead light came on and the screams of the sergeants disappeared down the hall. Yeah, I forgot to tell you about that: they were actual fucking sergeants, from the army. No joke. In the corner of my room, there was a triggered mousetrap with a gory rodent caught in the snare. I was having a full-scale breakdown at that point, tears were streaming down my cheeks, and my hands were experiencing an earthquake. To steady myself I looked in the drawer of the desk, there was a notebook and a black pen. Before I was caged I fancied myself an artist, a writer; I loved reading and writing, and of the biggest reasons why I despised school was because it turned art into some academic bullshit. It beat the love of writing out of me. Artist aren’t supposed to be caged. They’re meant to write whenever they feel depressed, but that’s a danger to conformity, so authoritarians beat it out of you, the creativity.

I didn’t sleep that night. I tried to, but I just wept into my pillow. I’m an atheist, but I prayed to God, all shivering and shriveled up in bed, afraid of those big men in army outfits who screamed and shouted so much. I was horrified. I didn’t think I would read the book even if I could see it, but I just wanted to glimpse Joyce’s name, and see the letters on the cover or on the blurb. But it was so dark.

The next morning alarms blared. There was no windows in my cell so I didn’t know what time of day it was, and the light didn’t come on so I couldn’t check my watch. I heard the sergeants opening the doors and ushering the inmates out. The cell doors weren’t locked, that would have been a violation of our rights, but the doors on either end of the hallway, the only doors out, were locked and barred. We were lead out the opposite side from where we came in, and into the field outside, behind the side of the building I couldn’t see when I arrive. It was torture yard; what they called the “exercise yard.” We were in an isolated area, probably so children's rights violation couldn’t be observed and reported; we were in the middle of these fields and valleys and forests, these beautiful vistas stretched out for miles before us. They spoke of freedom but we saw them through the chain-linked fence.

The sergeants told us something about how lucky we are to be here and all that bullshit. The fresh air made me feel better, I wasn’t as afraid now. We started off by running twenty laps around a square the size of a football field. Everyone was struggling for breath and it was an effort to breathe and we couldn’t get enough air in to extinguish the fire in our lungs. . But when some kid said he couldn’t keep up one of the fucking army cunts ran up to him and started yelling in his ear; and when that didn’t work, they told the kid to get on the ground and do fifty push-ups; and when he couldn’t do that they threatened him with solitary confinement. That happened to most people, myself included. I was driven by fear to run two more laps, but I just couldn’t handle it, so I fell back, then this sergeant ran up to me, and I was so tired I needed support, so I kind of threw myself at him. That’s when he punched me in the guts. In a whirl of confusion, with a strangled shout, and a feeling of my stomach shriveling up, I sank to my knees, my whole body drenched in sweat and pulsing with pain. “Sorry, son, I thought you were going to attack me. You fine? You shoulda just kept going like a good lad and I wouldn’t have socked ya, you see.” But I wasn’t listening, I was holding my stomach because it felt like it was going to fall out. Eventually I succumbed to a blackness which I honestly taught was eternal oblivion. In short, I was disappointed I hadn’t died then and there.

I awoke in the medical wing, which was the tower I saw, feeling doped up on drugs which did little to drown out the throbbing agony in my stomach. I had enough. I couldn’t stand it anymore, I had to escape.

RE: Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I - James Comey - 05-23-2017 12:56 PM

Shit this is some good writing you got here. I love the suspense and dread you're creating. Reminds me a lot on how I viewed school back then.

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I - Depression101 - 05-26-2017 10:22 AM

Thanks -- I'm glad you think so.

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I - Depression101 - 05-26-2017 10:26 AM

To be honest, the infirmary is important to the plot and I'm pretty sure leaving wounded people without treatment is so taboo they would get shut down. Even some schools have nurses. And, also, there are.going to be some fireworks and murders further in the story. I should put up the second part by tommorow or Saturday.

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I - Depression101 - 05-26-2017 10:30 AM

Oh, that, I thought you meant that they should lock the character up after they beat the shit out of him.

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II - Depression101 - 05-28-2017 06:54 AM

I spend three days in the infirmary, and in that time I did a lot of thinking. At first, it thinking about my mother, and how sweet back home would feel, and I cried when I remembered. Then it was dreaming about a house in the hills, or in the mountains; a nice little wooden cabin perched upon some snow-capped peak, or in some enchanted forest. Somewhere in Scotland, maybe, or Canada. Sometimes I thought I should play-along and they would soon let me out, no problem. But I knew the only way to see the mountains of Canada, and still remain free and independent, was to escape. On the second day I found I was not confined to my bed with sickness and I could freely explore the room; it was of liberal size, bright and white, with six beds and a latticed window. The window was my first destination, and I strolled over to it like a free man. Outside, the sun shone and and the sky was clear save a couple of clouds, but they looked less like masses of ice crystals and more like a painter’s brush strokes. They looked magical, like they defied natural law and construct, like they were painted by an impressionist. Or insurgent. Or both. When I looked at them, and the sun’s biblical beams, I felt the chains of oppression break away, and I was soaring above the world like a free man. That was when I made up my mind definitively: I was going to escape. I felt a rush of warmth in my gut at the conviction of that thought.

There were no cameras in the room and I knew the routine of the nurses by rote, so that eliminated the fear of discovery. I next explored the medicine cabinet. I looked at the labels: some vicodins, some paracetamol, the usual stuff; but what shocked me was a tub of smokeless powder sitting in the back of the cabinet. I took it out and examined it; it looked like smokeless powder, all right. Then I remembered a time ages ago. It’s New Year’s eve, me and my mother are making makeshift fireworks and launching them, it’s one of the best moments of my life, I know when those happen. But that was a different time. Now, I had an idea. I knew that if I could get my hands on some other items, I could make a firework. The only part I was unsure of was what I would use it for. I dismissed that thought and instead focused on how I would smuggle the powder out.I pondered the issue a while and eventually I tore my sock off and poured a liberal amount of powder in; then, thinking I would look suspicious with one sock on, I took the other off and filled it with valiums and adderalls. They probably did equipment checks but they hardly checked the exact amount of pills, I thought.

Suddenly, footsteps started thudding up the steps at a fast pace. I panicked, and, in a whirl of confusion, I threw open the window and hurled both of the socks out. They fell about six feet down and landed in the corner of the main building. I slammed shut the window and dove into the bed, sweating, heart thumping. The door opened and the doctor came in. He acknowledged my disturbed state with a heavy frown. I thought he was going to get some ideas and I started breathing faster. But I was relieved when he said “Don’t worry, young man, you’re merely in a state of shock. We’ll give you some medicine and tomorrow you’ll be able to begin your rehabilitation afresh.”

I tossed and turned in my bed all night, I couldn’t sleep: I was too anxious someone would discover the socks and I would really be in trouble. But I re-assured myself that, in the end, nothing really matters. We are born alone, we live alone, we die alone, and all for nothing. And only idiots conform to that idea, and only weak fools seek escape in religions. In contrast, the smartest of us seek to escape this world, but never turn our fantasies into religion and try to sell them as reality. I fell asleep but was awoken by the medical staff before the sun even tasted the horizon. They gave me a cup of water and two pills. I was still droopy but I knew I wasn’t about to take their pills. I wore a shirt with oversized sleeves the infirmary supplied and I saw a golden opportunity. I cupped my fist around the pills, like I was looking at them, but, really, I let them fall along my wrist and down into my sleeve. I frowned and quickly slapped my hand into my mouth. I promptly gulped down the water and looked up. Apparently, I was quite the actor. The doctor and nurse nodded approvingly and gave me my clothes.

I was transported to my cell where everything was as I left it, except the dead mouse and the trap. Those were gone. My mind was racing, trying to devise a plan of escape; I was pacing the room, anxious about the two socks resting in the corner of the building. I tried to calm myself but couldn’t. Finally, I decided to write my thoughts down in that notebook, hoping to get them in order. But, instead, what followed was an insurmountable burst of creative energy, unleashed on that pitiful paper: I never wrote so much in my life, all my thoughts expressed, half the notebook filled, the passion so burning that I forgot what reality I’m in, my writing so furious it tore holes in the paper. I wrote everything. Horror stories. A prison break. A cautionary tale against authoritarianism. A drama. It transformed into a tragedy. Finally, I forced to stop writing when a bell sounded and sergeants started opening every single cell door and telling the inmates to get a move-on. I missed breakfast and morning exercise. Now it was time for work. The way it worked, you had a selection of jobs, some better some worse, and you got paid for them; you would use the money to buy food at dinner time, and pay the sergeants to look the other way when you beat some motherfucker up at play-time. It was like prison, that way.

I was on the janitorial staff. I was assigned to the E wing, where all the staff and conference rooms are, with this other kid, Jerome Anderson. He had long hair, pierced ears, and sagged pants. He began to talk a little. He asked me what I was in for, in a tone that mocked prison movies. I lied and said I was here for slapping my teacher and skipping school; he told me he robbed a liquor store and his pa was a hard-assed military major. He wasn’t too bright -- he asked me if I could get him a shiv. Asking a stranger that could be your demise, but I wasn’t a snitch and I valued connection, which I never had in my life. I always stuck to myself and never saw the criminal side of life.

“Why ask me? A guy like you must have some connections,” I said

“Well,” he said. “See, money, I don’t need the shiv. Big Bobby is gonna buy it off me, for something I need.”

Big Bobby. That killed me, I nearly started laughing, but I was afraid he might kill me if I did, so I contained myself.

“Sure, slick, but I need two things in return.”

“Anything you want, my man.”

“One: I need a toothbrush; two: I need you to introduce me to, and get me in good with, the people who run the show around here.”

“You as good as got them,” he said.

“One more thing, I need a wooden toothbrush.”

“Sure thing, those come cheaper anyway.”

Lunchtime was hell. The food stank and tasted like vomit, probably because odour made the cook puke into it. After lunch, it was thirty minutes rest. Once the cell doors shut and I heard the sergeants disappear down the hall, I threw open my briefcase and took out my wooden toothbrush. The edge of the doorway was so sharp I think the sadist who made it hoped that some poor tall kid would cut their head open on it. I ripped the hairs out of the brush and got to work sharpening it. I slid it along the edge of the doorway like a hacksaw, with precise deliberation; I knew that furiously slicing it off the wall would make an uneven product. When I finished it, I retrieved the hairs and the wooden chippings and flushed them down the toilet. I admired my handiwork, it was amazing. Ironically, I got ten weeks of woodwork experience in school. I pocketed the shiv and opened my book. The bell rang: it was play-time. As we were lining up to go outside, it occurred to me they might search us, but my worries died on a sigh of relief when I went outside without hassle.

There were a bunch of benches, some dumbbells and mats, and some tables laid out with chess boards. I saw Jerome leaning against fence; we were in a fenced-off section within a fenced-off section. I walked up to him, elbowed him and slid the shiv half-way out of my pocket. I began to shake a little. I saw this shit in movies, for fucks sake, I never even realized how terrifying and threatening this stuff can be, you never realize how serious this shit is in real life. I didn’t know if I was doing it right, but I, once again, became relieved when Jerome’s face lit up like New York at night. I fit in pretty well into the criminal world after all. He tried to grab the weapon, but I pulled back.

“Quid quo pro,” I said. And I damn near shit my pants when I did so. It was a bold move -- I was rebellious, but I was always a quiet kid only hiding his faggyness and lameness with a mask of masculinity. I thought Jerome was going to force that shiv out of my hands and stab me with it. Shank me, as the prison term goes. And I did start thinking of this place like a prison. It was juvie, just without the judicial part.

“Wah?” Jerome said, confused.

“This for that,” I said with a strangled voice. ‘It’s only gonna be strangled when good ‘ole Jerry goes to work on your windpipe,’ I thought to myself.

“Oh, cmon, money, I just can’t getcha a toothbrush that fast, you know. I can introduce you ‘round if you give me the brush.”

I calmed down. His compliance gave me courage and I remember my “nothing matters” philosophy. I said, “You owe me an introduction as down payment, and I deserve a toothbrush for quick service. Don’t you think that’s fair?” He agreed.

Big Bobby was a handsome guy with blonde locks and tattoos up the ass; there was so much of them I wouldn’t be surprised if they literally went up his ass. He had the most connection in the boot camp, his father was on good terms with the piece of shit who runs it. Next was Connor Keating, a towering golem, as ugly as he was big. He was the muscle, you payed him to roughen people up. When he wasn’t in boot camp, he was in prison. Lastly, Kaden Dimes: smart, dangerous and influential. He ran a gang that would do you any favour in return for goods; they could get you past any sergeant, they could beat up almost anybody and they could steal from almost everybody.

I thanked Jerome and when I made sure he was occupied and far away, I approached Big Bobby and said I heard he’s looking for a weapon.

“Sure, I need a shiv for one of my boys. He don’t mind going to prison, he says it’s better than this shit-hole.” I registered the fact that I was providing a murder weapon but the magnitude of the fact didn’t hit me until a measly kid with glasses, whom I never saw before, was murdered a week later. I never saw him when I was scanning the crowds for someone who didn’t fit in like me. And thank God I didn’t because I would have sought him for friendship, and then we both would have been murdered.

“How’s this for a shiv?” I said as I discreetly slipped out my upgraded toothbrush.

“Swell and swanky. Brilliant craftsmanship. Who did you get it off?”

I smiled with pride and said, “Yours truly.”

“No shit! Well we gotta do business some other time. Whaddya want for it?”

“I need a lighter, for one, and some information as a tip won’t hurt. I’m a greeny.”

“Sure, I can getcha the lighter by tomorrow. Bring the shiv. Whaddya wanna know?”

“Do they do cell shakedowns here like in a prison? Do they search you often?”

“They ‘inspect’ your cell every week, but it’s all scheduled. It’d get ‘em in trouble otherwise, we’re not even in juvie, for Chrissake. They always search you after yard-time is over. If you want to get in without trouble, you gotta either pay a guy with connections to get it in forya, or dig a hole in the yard.”

“How much would it cost to smuggle something in.”

“One easy-to-conceal item should be about a buck twenty-five.”

I got five dollars for work, and I blew three in the cafeteria.

“Say, buddy, would you mind giving fifty cent. I’ll owe you a dollar, okay?”

“Sure, but pay me back in three days, if ya know what’s good for ya.”

I borrowed the dough because it was then that I remembered about the corner of the building, and thankfully it was within the confines of the yard. And thank fucking lord I saw the two socks there. I took them to Dimes and paid the fee to have them snuck in. I told him my room number and then went to back to the corner and dug a hole where I buried my shiv.

When I returned to my cell after supper, I found the socks on my bed. I counted the pills and weighed the powder in my hand. Everything felt about right. The next day transpired about the same, but when I went to dig up my shiv, I couldn’t find it. I started digging frantically around the whole corner, but I just couldn’t find the shiv. It was gone.

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II - Depression101 - 06-13-2017 04:07 AM

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.”

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III - A Wild T-34 - 06-15-2017 04:51 AM

Please add me in the story with a sniper rifle ;333

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III - Depression101 - 06-17-2017 02:24 AM

When I returned to my cell I found it untouched. Stressed out and in pain, I took one of the Valiums. My bones were still sensitive to movement, but I felt better. And now I was hell-bent on escaping and a plan formed in my head: disjointed ideas floating around my mind, eventually connecting, and presenting a clearer picture of my escape.

You might assume a cynical guy like me would have a hundred problems with the world, but I only have one: humans, because I depend on them. The only thing that can sabotage my plan is other people. And I'm not talking about the guards here, I'm talking about other inmates. If omnicide was to happen, it would solve all the problem in the world, because there would be nobody to have them.

The next day, after breakfast, came "training time", which translated into three hours of sergeants screaming at us and swiping us with batons as we ran races with tyres, or crawled through mud; or there was this exercise which was supposed to teach us team-work: they had us lug this huge log of wood(basically a tree-trunk) across the perimeter of the compound. We did it in teams of six, as a race. At the end of the race we had to select the person who was "the worst team player." These poor souls would have to do a hundred push-ups, naked, over a burning pit, while screaming "I'm a selfish prick and I deserve to burn!" Usually, someone paid off the rest of the team to select a certain someone. I was slipped for four dollars in exchange for selecting Micheal Dango.

I was still on the cleaning staff but in a different wing, and with someone else. Me and Angle Sexton cleaned the kitchen, the cafeteria and the reception. If his first and last names weren't bad enough his middle one was Samuel, thus, everyone called him Ass. Despite his humiliating name, Ass was infamous for being able to smuggle anything in. He would pay off the inmates who worked in the kitchen to get him the more risky items; but, otherwise, he payed off the receptionist to get him things as long as they were harmless. She worked nine-to-five, minimal wage, so she agreed to sell harmless items. For a buck fifty a day, I usually helped him with this. Conveniently, I manged to order four hair-pins from the receptionist. She wasn't afraid I'd try to escape, she thought the goddamn place was Alcatraz. And, in a way, it was. But didn't Clint Eastwood escape from there?

Ass traded with all of the gang leaders so I asked him to get a good word in for me. It was a stupid thing since it was on the first day, but we were already handling contraband together and a friendship was swiftly forming.

"Why you asking me, chief," Ass said. "After you pissed on that sergeant you became a celebrity 'round here."

"No shit?"

"Yes shit."

When yard time came I approached Big Bobby, and he said:

"Sorry we got off on the wrong foot, kid. I had to rougha ya up, you know. No hard feeling, right?" I told him not worry about it, that I would have done the same if I were him.

"Here," I said and handed him three dollars. "As a little token of friendship."

Big Bobby laughed and patted me on the back, "I was right, wasn't I: no hard feelings?"

"None at all, B," I said. "None at all."

I went to the other two gang leaders and repeated the routine. The next five days transpired about the same, I asked around and found out that parents will be coming to visit in four days time, and I got my hairpins. Everything was going great. I kept my golden watch in fear of emergancies, who knows how frequently the missing shiv situation plays out in here. I had some trouble with Jerome, who was drawing the gang leaders' favour away from me, and so I was pleased to see him on my team in the "lugging the log" activity. I quickly produced my money and paid off three other members of the team. The vote went four against two and poor Jerry was the least productive on the team. But Jerome, in his blind need for vegance, persisted. So I had to resort to paying my last dollars to Connor Keating who broke every single bone in Jerome's legs. Every. Single. Bone. And he smashed his nose until it bent at ninty degrees. Then everyone respected me.

I kept one Valium and adderall in case of an emergency, but I sold the rest. When I sealed the last deal of the day Kaden Dimes came up to me and said,

"Tomorrow they're frisking our cells. Just a tip, money, but you might want to get rid of any contraband you might have."

"When they doing the frisking?"

"After dinner, before yard time."

"And how am I supposed to dispose of the contraband?"

"Well, you can shove it up your ass if it's small enough -- the contraband, I mean. Or you can pay off a guard. No! Not to shove it up 'is ass, ya fucking moron; to look the other way! Bobby has connections, you might try him."

"Thanks," I said and slipped a dollar into his shirt pocket.

Big Bobby, once I approached him, asked what's the hot stuff. I answered him, and he said:

"It's none of my buisness why you need that stuff, but the powder will cause trouble. Although, I think it can be done. As to the pills... you'll need to hide 'em. They're too hot. Don't shove 'em up your ass, though, nobody will buy 'em and and I wouldn't eat 'em if I were you."

I looked down speculatively. "How do these searches work?" I asked.

"There are four rows in total, each side of the room, on both floors. One sergeant starts at one of end of the row and another one at the other; eight sergeants in total. They frisk you first and then they get onto your cell."

"Say," I said. "You know the guy in room four, the one next to me?"

"Sure, Piggy Figleas. Greedy fat cunt. No one likes doing business with him. Why?"

"Point him out to me."

"Why, there he is, by the dumbbells. The one eating the muffin, the ugly fat fuck. See him?"

"Sure. But, anyway, let's talk business."

"As I said, the powder is real hot stuff, it'll be pricy. How much do you have?"

"Ten bucks and a golden watch."

"What golden watch."

"Rolex. It's pretty old, but looks good."

"Good, that'll be enough."

"I'll slip it to you at breakfast."

"I heard something pretty similar last time, and it didn't end well."

I donned my best poker-face, and snuck some semblance of a snarl into the mix. Bobby just nodded and looked at me.

Piggy was the next order of business; I came up to him and said,

"I'll make it brief: tomorrow, after they're done frisking you and move onto your cell, I'll slip you two pills. And if you return 'em to me after the guard's moved on, I'll make it worth your while." The fat fucker continued to munch on his muffin; actually, he exaggerated his munching into a slow, deliberate movement to intimidate me or whatever his tiny fucking brain commanded.

"How much?" He said after he swallowed.

"Five bucks," I said.

"Don't trust you. Need to see dough."

"Here," I said. I took out seven bucks. "I'll give you two now, as a sign of good faith, and I'll pay you the five tomorrow."

"Make it six," he said as chunks of muffin escaped his gob and crumbled down his sweat-stained shirt.

"Sure thing, buddy," I said and restrained myself from knocking him over and dancing on him as I rolled him like a barrel. I was once fat, I'm still sensitive to it.

Big Bobby got his Rollex and the hour of the search came. We were told to line up outside our cells as two sergeants approached either end of my line. The sergeants first frisked the resident of a cell before they moved onto their residence. By the sound it, you would assume a whirlwind was rampagining inside there; the guards not only made a mess, but they made it on purpose. I suddenly remembered the push-ups and felt tears stinging my eyes, trying to break through the retina, but I held back and gritted my teeth. When the sergeant frisking Piggy grunted with disappointment when he found nothing amiss he burst into the cell with a hopeful gleam in his eye. I quickly nudged Piggy and pulled the drugs out of my pocket and put them in his. We locked eyes and he nodded, adding a fourth chin to his hideous face.

When the guard moved onto me I asked him if he knew Big Bobby. His nostrils flared and a fierce look flickered in his eyes, then he glimpsed at my cell number and grunted an affirmative. He frisked me, then moved onto the cell; he went in and just kicked things around. Bored, he spilled my briefcase onto the floor and went out without looking at it.

After the search was past, I told Piggy to give me back the pills. He demanded the money first; I slipped it out of my pocket and flashed it at him. He opened his greasy palm to reveal the pills, and I tried to snatch them; but before I could, he snapped shut his fist. Desperate, I slipped the money into his shirt pocket, but the fist remained closed. He smiled triumphantly and retreated into his cell. I stood there, enraged and betrayed. I stood there quaking with rage until a guard marched up to me and spit in my face: "Get back into your cell, faggot!" I did, but I never broke sight with Piggy's room until a wall blocked my view, and my door shut.

My sanity waned and wavered on a thin line. My mind was slipping, I paced around my room, whispering "fuck school, fuck conformity, fuck my life" frantically. I felt like conforming, like subscribing to the ideals of idiots. Idiots who lived boring lives, having wives children and normal jobs, and all that disgusting shit. Watching TV the whole day long, "relaxing." But everytime they watched some mindless TV show or the news station, it wasn't them getting sucked into it -- it was their free-thought and free-will getting sucked into it. Never to be seen again. Never missed, replaced by an imposter. A cancerous imposter. This I kept telling myself and kept beveling, but kept having to repeat nonetheless.

Do not think of your granny naked. Upon hearing this, most would think of their granny naked; if not instantly, then it would keep preying on their mind until they did. That's what I felt like in that goddamn cell. I kept resisting conformity for so long that eventually my mind kept telling me I should conform and end my suffering, but a different part of that mind -- the true part -- kept fighting it. I don't know if that even makes sense, I didn't then and I don't know. I'm going fucking insane. My sanity is fathoms deep in dark waters. "Relax", I told myself and tried to think, but all my thoughts kept contradicting each other. It's like I was sacrificing the idealistic, ambitious part of myself for a boring, ordinary part of myself.

As I was being tortured during training time the next day I felt the rebellious, passionate part of me being buried beneath the dirt and mud I was forced to crawl through. I needed to do something quick. And something big.

Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV - stevehein - 06-23-2017 10:18 AM

wow. just.... wow.