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Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV
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Depression101 Offline
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Post: #9
Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III

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.

"Then it was straight to the 40 ouncers/ slapping teachers and jacking off in front of my counselors." As the World Turns - Eminem.

"A man is a success if gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between does whatever he does what he wants to do." - Bob Dylan.

"A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong." - Orson Welles.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die." - H.P. Lovecraft.

"I became insane, with long intervals of painful sanity." Edgar Allan Poe.
06-17-2017 02:24 AM
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Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III - Depression101 - 06-17-2017 02:24 AM

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