Chapter Three
M y grandfather used to say, “Our secrets are just as significant a part of who we are as anything else. The role we allow them to play in our lives is entirely up to us.”
I always found that interesting.
From a young age, we’re taught not to keep secrets.
That it’s harmful and hurtful, and that keeping a secret is essentially holding on to our inner shame.
But as I got older—the more truths I began to keep to myself—the more I discovered that secrets don’t automatically equal guilt. At least, they don’t have to.
Everyone keeps secrets. If you say you don’t, you’re a liar. Not a single one of us has shared every single aspect of our lives with someone else. Think about it. There have to be at least one or two things you’ve never told anyone before.
Why be ashamed of that? It’s our right as human beings to keep things to ourselves. Whether it’s a thought, or something you did, or something about yourself you choose not to divulge…
Imagine how crazy it would be if our minds were on permanent display, like an episode of Black Mirror . It would be a violation of our inherent privacy.
Not to mention, secret doesn’t have to mean something only you know. Sometimes you can come together with your fellow man to keep a secret from someone else. Might sound fucked up, but in a way, it’s a form of bonding.
Remember, I Know What You Did Last Summer?
Sorta like that.
That’s the kind of secret that Quiet Night is.
Quiet Night was the name given to a weekly meeting of guards and prisoners in the basement rec room. Long story short, it’s like a cockfight, only with prisoners. Organized by a few of the guards and kept heavily hidden from everyone else on the island.
Sounds like a secret society within an already mystery-shrouded prison, right? Sort of… Except that we’re not equal, because the guards oversee it and they place bets, make money, and threaten to kill us if we ever tell anyone. Like a more intense version of Fight Club .
The inmates who fight get a say in whether we want to participate, but let’s not act like saying no, backing out, or giving off even the slightest whiff of judgement won’t put a giant bullseye on your back.
Still, for the most part, us Night Fighters agree to do it because we’re bored, angry, and we enjoy the act of both fucking people up and getting fucked up in return.
O’Malley and I are part of it, though I only choose to go down every so often. When I need it. O’Malley, on the other hand, would be down there every damn night if he could.
The dude loves fighting, and not in the same professional way that I do. Never in my life have I seen someone take on dudes three times his size, and get his ass beat with such masochistic glee… He’s like a schizophrenic Chihuahua.
It’s actually pretty alarming. But then I like to fight, myself, so who am I to say anything?
Yes, O’Malley has more issues than Time magazine, and yes , he should probably be on serious medication and constant surveillance from some kind of medical professional.
But in Alabaster Penitentiary, things like that don’t matter.
His obvious problems aren’t seen as a liability, but rather something to exploit for personal gain.
That might be the one truly honest thing about this place… We’re all fucked the hell up. At least in here, we’re celebrated for our issues, rather than condemned for them.
Unless, of course, we’re talking about the East Wing. But that’s a whole other side to this sentence I don’t want to think about right now.
A select few of the guards got together and started Quiet Night.
It’s never been confirmed, but if I were to guess, I’d say they call it that because when we’re down in the basement, pummeling each other in the face, Gen-pop gets much quieter.
That and the guards use it as a code phrase of sorts to let us know when it’s on.
“We’re gonna have a quiet night tonight, got it?”
“Let’s make it a quiet night for once, inmate.”
That sorta thing.
Truth be told, I’m not even sure if Velle knows; that’s how hush-hush the whole thing is.
Part of me assumes Velle knows about literally everything that happens within these walls, because he is the Warden’s top dog; his henchman, his eternally loyal second in command.
It’s his job to have eyes everywhere, just like the Warden does.
So he must know… Right?
Still, I can’t be absolutely certain. Velle’s never shown his face in the rec room for a Quiet Night , and the guards who organize it seem to go to great lengths to keep any mention of it away from him.
But just because he doesn’t participate, doesn’t mean he’s not aware of what’s going on. Same goes for The Ivory…
I’m positive the Warden knows about Quiet Night . But he’s not going to say anything, because that’s the name of his game. To let us think we’re getting away with things… Meanwhile, he’s standing over us all, pulling the strings, goddamn puppet master that he is.
First rule of Quiet Night is you never, ever talk about it.
See what I mean?
It must be around three o’clock in the morning, though I’d have no idea. I haven’t looked at a clock in ages. But despite the haphazard schedule and lack of windows in this place, your body’s internal clock adjusts. And after a while, you start to work off of that.
We’re in the basement—a group of deranged criminals and the equally feral men in charge—where we have been for hours. And I just kicked the shit out of Nieves, on a mat, surrounded by a circle of cheering guards and prisoners.
It was a decent fight. He got a few licks in, and I can feel my right eye swelling already. My knees are wobbly, skin raw, various sore muscles. But I won.
Linetti and Brenner, two of the guards who host Quiet Night , are counting their winnings on the side, while one prisoner, Cooper, drags Nieves off the mat, leaving a trail of blood as he goes.
He’ll be fine.
“Ayo, walk it off, papi,” grumbles Lucas, a guard who lost money.
Serves him right for betting against me. I’m undefeated, bitch.
“Rub some dirt on it. You’ll live,” Brenner adds, unsurprisingly unsympathetic. “Who’s up next?”
Linetti checks the writing on his hand. “Uh, let’s see… We got Hammond up against… Oh, shit.” He chuckles. “O’Malley. Good luck, sport.” He shoots Hammond a look, who understandably appears worried.
O’Malley isn’t undefeated per se, but even his losses feel like a win, because of how brutal and fucking crazy he is.
I’m swiping blood away from my eyebrow as O’Malley slaps me on the side. I wince from the tenderness after being punched there probably a dozen times.
“No mercy,” he says to me, grinning and sticking out his tongue.
“No surrender.” I grab him roughly by the shoulders, shoving him toward the circle.
He jogs onto the mat like a psychopathic Connor McGregor, beating his chest and yelling out nonsense, threatening everyone who boos him.
Hammond has a good foot on O’Malley in height—the dude is barely five-six—and probably at least fifty pounds in muscle. He’s a big guy. But size doesn’t mean dick in fighting, especially under prison rules.
Anything goes.
No holds fucking barred.
The shouts, whistles, and taunts are amplified when Brenner calls out, “ Fight! ”
I’m often surprised no one can hear us down here. For as huge as this place is, and all the thick concrete everywhere, the noise still really travels.
Running fingers from my brow, over my eye and onto my cheekbone, I shiver at the sensation of pain ; the throbbing ache with its own heartbeat.
I like it. I don’t know why, but I do.
I’m not a total masochist. At least I don’t think I am…
But ever since I was thrown into Alabaster Pen without an ounce of warning, I’ve become more and more invested in pain.
Really anything that allows me to feel , whether it’s sex, or fighting…
Shallow acts for my body to endure, to remind me I’m not just an empty husk.
The thing is, it wasn’t Alabaster Penitentiary that made me this way…
I’ve felt invisible for as long as I can remember. Since I was a child standing in the corner.
I don’t like to complain about my childhood, because I know some people have it so much worse than me, but still, I don’t remember ever being happy with anyone other than my grandfather. Certainly not my father.
Tae Jin Kang is the epitome of a hard ass.
Stone-cold, reserved and perpetually indifferent.
I suppose he loves us… my mother, my sister, and me.
Because he has to. But he never truly cared for my grandfather, or New York; that much was clear.
As far as he was concerned, he came to America as an obligation, and as soon as my grandfather was dead, he could pack up and head back to Seoul— after collecting my mother’s hefty inheritance, of course.
Unfortunately for him, Rafe Byron Jr. held on for as long as he could. He passed away on my thirteenth birthday. It was the last time I cried. I also haven’t celebrated a birthday since.
By that time, we were already settled in Manhattan, living in the penthouse that belonged to my grandfather.
He left it to my mother and me when he died.
Naturally, my father wanted to sell the place and move back to Korea, but he needed my signature to do so, even though I was a child.
It was a stipulation of the estate. And I refused to sign.
That sure as shit didn’t make father dearest like me any more.
Maybe that’s why my dad has always despised me so much… I remind him of his father-in-law, who never saw him as a good enough man to raise his grandchildren, or support his beloved daughter.
Rafe was the only member of my family who ever understood me; he was the only person who even tried. And with him gone, I felt even more invisible. My grandfather had died, but I was the one who felt like a ghost…
Maybe that’s why I love to fight so much. Why I love the pain and the secrets… The darkness. Because it’s all I have left.