Breakout by Paul Herron (notion reading list .txt) 📕

I frown as I stare through the tiny scratched window in the door of our cell. Why the hell am I thinking about the passing of time? That’s a bad way to start the day. Just leads to depression.

Oh yeah. Felix.

“I mean, the kid was crying again,” says Felix from his bunk. “He’s been here—what? Three weeks now? I told him. I said the only way to survive prison is not to fight it.”

“That right?” I say absently.

Our cell is on the upper level of B Block. All I can see out the window is the walkway railing and the cells on the opposite side of the pod. Looks like Stevens has been banging his head against the glass again. His window is smeared with dark crimson.

“’Course it’s right. Accept you’re here, man. There’s no three-bedroom house in our future. No wife and kids. No puppy. No sneaking off to see your mistress on a Friday afternoon after work—you know, the one who does the things your wife thinks are disgusting. That’s gone. Don’t even think about it. This is your life now. Embrace it. Own that shit.”

“I thought I had,” I say.

Had I, though? I wasn’t really sure. It’s hard to know your own mind in prison. Too many thoughts running through your head. Things tend to get distracted, confused.

“The fuck, man?” snaps Felix. “You not listening to a word I’m saying?”

Jesus. Miss Temperamental over there. You have to be careful with Felix. Normally he’s pretty chill, but the weirdest thing can set him off into a flying rage. I’ve never been on the receiving end of it, but I’ve seen inmates carried to the infirmary who have.

“I’m listening,” I say. Then I pause. “Just remind me again?”

“I’m sayin’ we have to accept we’re stuck in here. Look… you seen Leo, right? The old guy? Sits at the back of the cafeteria. Always holdin’ his knife and fork like he’s about to stab them into his head.”

“Yeah.”

“You know why he’s like that?”

“Let me take a wild guess. Because he hasn’t accepted he’s here?”

“Bingo. He’s always thinkin’ about a way out. Always watching, planning. Guy looks eighty years old. Been here his whole life. And he still thinks he’s going to see the outside. Always talking about digging tunnels, sneaking through storm drains. Look what it’s got him. Stomach ulcers and delusions. I told that to the new kid. Pauly.”

“What’d he do?”

“Started crying again.”

I glance over my shoulder at Felix. He’s a big guy. Six-three, solid muscle. Black skin and intense eyes. Likes to read cheesy romance novels from the prison library. Each to his own. He’s currently lying on his bunk holding a pink-and-orange book. I can just see the bare chest of some pirate-type guy on the cover.

“Just so I’m clear. You think not accepting he’s in prison gave Leo stomach ulcers and delusions?”

“Sure. You gotta go with the flow, man. Live life like a Zen monk. Those motherfuckers don’t stress about nothin’. That’s how prison breaks you. You live with hope, it’s gonna kill you in the end. You gotta realize this is your life from now on. Accept that shit in your soul. Then everything’s hunky-dory.”

“Nobody says hunky-dory anymore, Felix,” I say, turning back to the door.

“I do.”

Fact of the matter is, I actually agree with him. Even though I struggle with time, mainly the boredom of it all, I long ago adjusted to the fact that this is it. That my life is over.

Not that I care. My life was over before I even got caught.

But what Felix says about hope is true. Even those with something to live for lose it in the end. Maybe they keep a photograph of their girlfriend on their wall, or drawings from their kids. Birthday cards, something like that. They start off as symbols of hope. Hope that they still have a life outside, hope that they’re getting out someday. But as the months drag on, despair takes over. You can’t keep hope alive with no payoff. Your mind only lets you lie to yourself for so long before it turns on you.

Best not to care about anything. Or anybody. Nothing to lose that way.

“Head count!”

I lean back as a heavy cranking sound echoes through the pod, followed by the metallic slam of forty-two doors sliding open. I step out of the cell, checking left and right as I do so. Reflex. It’s the perfect time for an attack. Nobody is expecting it.

It’s safe, though. Just inmates yawning and scratching their balls as they step onto the metal grating, the first part of the daily routine kicking in. The first segment of time in the never-ending spiral toward madness or death—whichever comes first.

“You were snoring again last night,” says Felix as he joins me on the walkway.

“I don’t snore.”

“You fucking do. Like a freight train. Seriously. You need to see a doctor or something, because I am highly likely to suffocate you if you carry on like that.”

“Whatever,” I say, stifling a yawn. I’m exhausted. Everyone is. The storm that has been pummeling Florida for the past two days sounds like it’s getting stronger, the raging wind a constant howling and shrieking that can be heard through the thick prison walls. It’s putting everyone on edge, keeping everyone up at night.

I slept in today because of that, but I’m usually up before five. That’s the quietest time in prison. Even the crazies who stay up all the hours screaming and crying tend to drift off after four. It’s my private time. My few moments of relaxation before the routine of prison forces me to break the day down into smaller and smaller chunks.

This first chunk starts at quarter after six—roll call. Every inmate has to shuffle outside and stand there while the correction officers—COs—count us off with old manual clickers. If anyone sleeps in, or if someone is too slow to make it to head count, the whole process starts all over again,