6
"Ten years," the judge said.
Two weeks later, I was transferred to Iron Veil State Correctional Facility.
Even as I sat on the bus in that stiff orange jumpsuit, it still didn't register.
I was catatonic. I had been high for so many years that I didn't know how to exist in the real world.
To me, the "real world" wasn't real; it was a bad dream I’d eventually wake up from to return to my paradise. That high was my only true home.
"Check out the pretty lips," one guy muttered.
"The hell do they feed y’all out there?" another laughed.
I wasn't afraid, mostly because I still felt like I was watching a movie of someone else's life.
A month in, I was assigned a cell with the biggest man I’d ever seen up close:
Jawar Naples.
He was bald, beefy, and dark-skinned. The guards couldn't stop laughing when they locked the door.
For the first week, Jawar was a statue. He stayed on the bottom bunk reading, barely saying two words.
I was terrified. I was sure he was going to kill me, but I remained respectful.
I stayed on my top bunk, flinching every time he moved, ready to go down fighting if I had to.
But Jawar's entire vocabulary consisted of:
"Morning." "Can you move?" "I'm going to take a shit." "Good night."
Eventually, the guards realized we weren't killing each other.
"They don't like you too much, do they?" Jawar asked me one morning.
"I can't figure why," I replied.
The cell was a concrete box, one toilet in the corner, a sink, and the bunks. That was it.
"They don't like rock stars," Jawar said, looking up from his book. "Think you're all pretty boys who can get away with anything. When they get one like you, it's like catching a big fish." He held out a meaty hand. "Jawar."
"King," I said, shaking it.
"Where are you from, King?"
"Virginia."
He burst out laughing. "What in the world are you doing in a prison in New York?"
He was from Memphis, Tennessee, but grew up in a town called Brackenridge.
He started talking more than I thought possible, telling me about his life.
For the first time, I had a friend who wasn't part of the fast, drugged-out lifestyle I knew.
Jawar watched my back. When people tried to mess with me, he just gave them a look, and they backed off.
Three months went by. I noticed how calm Jawar stayed, even when people tried to bait him or whispered about his past. He never lost his temper.
Once, during a skirmish in the mess hall, I was ready to kill a guy just to make him respect me.
I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I looked at Jawar, and he gave me a slow, almost indiscernible shake of the head. Not worth it.
On September 10th, my mother came to visit.
I didn't expect her to. Once she realized the money had dried up, she’d all but forgotten me, though she still told lies to the press about how she "made" me.
She sat behind the glass, dressed up and spiffed out.
She didn't ask how I was. She didn't say she loved me.
"I told you it was going to catch up to you," she whispered into the phone, her voice thick with accusation. "You go do this shit and embarrass me."
I didn't say a word. I just hung up the phone, turned my back, and told the guard I was done. She never visited again.
A week later, another visitor came. I thought maybe it was Uncle Daryl, though he didn't give a damn about me. Instead, I saw a guy with curly black hair and an unkempt beard. I didn't know him. We both picked up the phones at the same time.
"Do you know who I am?" the man asked, his jaw set in rage.
"No," I said.
"My name is Lionel Gregory. The woman... the woman you killed was my wife. And you killed my child." His lips trembled. "She would have been 26 today. I just need you to know that. You get to eat, shit, and breathe while she is dead… because you were selfish. You killed two people. You disgusting pathetic monster. You’re not even a man. You’re a THING,” he seethed with all the quiet rage of a man wanting revenge.
“You don’t deserve my tax dollars. You don’t deserve the right to even sit here and look at me. You’re so lucky you’re back there. And not out here. Just saying… it would be so unfortunate… if you knew what it felt like. If someone took someone YOU love. I hope you rot in hell."
Part of me wanted to tell him the joke was on him. I had no loved ones left for him to threaten. But I said nothing. He hung up hard and walked away.
By February, the stress was showing. My red hair was fading, the gray becoming so pronounced that other inmates commented on it. I was getting used to being sober, used to the trauma and regret I’d tried so hard to keep at bay.
On October 1st, I noticed a man they called "Bird" watching me. He was scrawny, with a Hispanic accent, maybe Mexican or Nicaraguan. He was shorter than me, but he looked like a fighter. Jawar was usually with me, so Bird kept his distance, until one day I was walking through the hall alone.
"Hey, pretty boy," Bird said, approaching me. "I need help with training. Your physique is crazy."
"I don't know. I'm busy," I said, trying to move past.
"No, I think you can make time." He reached out and grabbed my arm, running a hand over my bicep.
The hair stood up on my neck. It was the same way my mother’s friends used to grab me when they wanted a "closer look." I yanked my hand away. "Nah."
But Bird didn't stop. He started giving me predatory smiles every time he saw me. A week later, he managed to corner me. He made his expectations explicit. He wanted me to be his "property."
I didn't think. I pushed him up against the wall, my hand hovering near his throat. "Get the fuck off me! Don't fucking touch me!"
I saw Jawar heading toward us.
Bird backed off, but my adrenaline was coursing through me. I was seconds away from killing him, and I knew exactly what that would mean for my sentence.
I was terrified of how close I’d come to losing what little freedom I had left.
Things seemed peaceful after that point. When I spent time with Jawar, I would often hear him humming a tune under his breath. One day, I asked him what he was singing, and the big guy just smiled.
"An old church hymn," Jawar replied. "Lest I Forget Gethsemane."
I laughed, a real sound that felt foreign in that place. "You rock with church hymns? What about some good rock?"
"There is nothing like a church hymn to cleanse the soul of man," Jawar said, looking at me with those calm eyes. "Because God is good, King. God is so good."
I thought that was weird. I didn't feel anything good or God-like about being in prison and having my life turned to shit.
Jawar would talk about it on and off, but he never preached it like some of those crazy Bible nutters.
When other people did it, it was annoying, but Jawar dropped it in little doses that made it feel like it was just part of his personality.
Around that time, I noticed how much Jawar had become my safe space, just like it used to be with my friends.
It was a bitter pill to swallow because the friends I grew up with, even Malcolm, not one of them came to visit me.
Not one. It was hurtful, and I kept making excuses for them when I talked to Jawar.
I told him maybe they were traveling, or they were too busy, and that it wasn't their fault because I was the one who got myself into this.
Jawar never said a word in response. He probably knew what I didn't want to accept: that the men I considered my brothers had left me to rot. It had been well over a year, and the only faces I’d seen across the glass were my mother’s and the man whose wife I’d killed.
By November 4th, people were already getting excited for the upcoming Thanksgiving dinner.
When you’re in prison, you don't have a lot to look forward to.
Maybe mail, but if you don't have anyone sending it regularly, it gets lonely.
You start looking for activities within Ironvale just to keep from going crazy.
At first, I’d been getting mail from fans, girls who thought I was hotter because I had killed someone.
It made me sick to my stomach. Then there were the death threats and the hate mail.
Eventually, I told the guards to toss anything that didn't come from a few white-listed addresses, like my lawyers or the court.
On that morning, the one thing I was looking forward to was Jawar coming back to the cell.
But Jawar had been reassigned to a double kitchen shift.
In Ironvale, they reassign jobs for certain blocks all the time; it means you’re on the line for breakfast, lunch, and dinner prep without much of a break.
Since he was on kitchen duty, he was still close by in the facility, but it meant I wasn't going to get to talk to him as much as usual.
I’ve always had a bit of a spider-sense, a small instinct that tells me when something dangerous is looming nearby.
I started hearing little words here and there about Jawar being used for the reassignment, and it felt like vultures circling dying prey, moving the pieces around just to get me alone.
But my guy Jawar always looked out for me. Before he left for his shift, he told me to always keep my eyes and ears open, to keep my head up and stay out of trouble.
I smiled at him. "I'm the one who's supposed to be looking out for you, old man."
Jawar just grinned, patting my shoulder. "I'm bigger than you, baby goat."
I gave him a pat on the back and a quick hug. We were like family, almost inseparable, and it felt weird with him not being around. Two days later, everything changed.
?
It’s funny how you can get used to any life, and life in prison isn't so bad until you realize you have real enemies.
Who knew a simple word like "no" could make life hell?
I found myself wishing through my stay in Ironvale that I had used that word a lot more when I was on the "surface.
" Maybe then I’d still have my freedom. But Ironvale was my home now.
And I had a brother. A real brother who didn't just say he was going to look out for me, but was actually there to put himself in the line of danger for me.
On November 6th, I was caught in a routine inmate movement.
We were being cycled back from the yard to our respective blocks.
I was walking through the long corridor of the North Wing, caught in a gap between the main groups.
There were guards at each end of the hall, but they were occupied with a shouting match that had broken out near the gates.
For thirty seconds, I was in a blind spot.
I took the corner near the laundry exchange, and everything happened in a blur. I didn't even understand what was happening at first. All I saw was a rush of motion from the shadows, and then a hand flew up and punched me in the neck. Twice.
It didn't hurt. Not at first.
Then I felt a strange, warm sensation spreading down my chest. I started feeling light-headed, the world tilting on its axis.
I reached up, and that’s when I realized I hadn't been punched.
I had been stabbed in the neck and the upper shoulder.
My light started fading from my eyes, and I dropped to my knees, clutching my throat.
I thought someone had poured a bucket of warm water on me, but it was my own blood gushing out, painting the floor red.
Next thing I knew… well, it was nothing. There’s a huge swath of time missing.
In that moment, I believed I was dying. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to react. It was Bird. I vaguely remember the in and outs of him being there, having said some words to me, something sexual, something horrible. I had denied him, and I was going to lose my life for it.
I thought I was dead that day. It was very peaceful outside of the fear I felt realizing that all the blood in my body was leaving me.
No matter how much I tried to grab my neck, it's like my hands no longer worked.
I couldn't even pull them up to my neck or that area near my heart even if I wanted to.
Just like that. That's how fast life can end. Over absolutely nothing.
The only news I had when I was barely conscious in the infirmary was that Bird was restrained and removed from the general population, placed in AdSeg pending an investigation. Meanwhile, I was fighting for my life.
???