7
That’s when I died. Or that’s what I heard, anyway, because they had to bring me back twice.
About three days later, Jawar was finally cleared from kitchen duty and allowed an escorted hospital visit.
I don’t remember if I felt happy to see him because I was so doped up on meds, something that made me feel good, but nothing that ever felt as good as my paradise.
But it was close enough that it made me wish I could just go out like that.
Two days after he visited me, I was surprised to find I was still alive. I was conscious enough for him to sing me "Happy Birthday." Just five days before that, to think, only five days prior, I didn't think I’d live to see twenty-eight. I wasn't supposed to be here.
Most of the time I spent in the clinic alone, just resting up. Jawar must have pulled some favors with the guards, because he was able to come and sit with me regularly. After nearly a week in the ICU and the infirmary, I was finally stable enough to be moved back to our cell.
Physically, I was a wreck. My neck was a map of jagged stitches, and my shoulder felt like it had been chewed on by a wolf.
Every time I moved, I could feel the pull of the thread in my skin.
Mentally, I was even worse. Losing that much blood leaves you with this bone-deep exhaustion, a heaviness that makes even breathing feel like a chore.
I did a lot of soul-searching in that bunk, wondering why I was still alive.
I wondered why I had been given the mercy of life when I had taken someone else’s so flippantly, so selfishly.
I didn't even feel like I deserved the protection Jawar gave me.
"I’m sorry I wasn’t here, brother," Jawar told me as I lay there in the cell.
"I’m glad... I’m glad you weren’t," I whispered. My voice was raspy, barely a thread of sound. "I wouldn’t have wanted you to see that. Don’t need you getting in trouble for me."
He held my hand, and I squeezed it as hard as I possibly could, which wasn't much. Whenever he sat with me, he was usually reading that book I’d recognized a long time ago as his Bible.
"What are you always reading in there?" I asked, calling back to the memory of when we first became friends.
Jawar gave me that big, goofy smile of his. "God’s word."
"The Bible?" I asked sarcastically.
"Best book there is."
"Isn’t everything in there just fantasy?"
Jawar licked his lips, holding back a smirk.
"Funny how people look at superheroes. Superman, Spider-Man, and they use them as examples to learn how to live their lives. They don't mind that. But they fight so hard when they read stories about everyday people having faith in something bigger than themselves. Ain’t it the same thing? They’re just lookin' for a hero, King. "
"I mean, it just seems very archaic to me," I said, wishing like hell that if that God were real, He would have reached down and stopped my car before I killed Diane.
"The superheroes you can relate to because they can’t be everywhere. I find it hard to believe a God can know everything and be everywhere at the same time, yet still be unable to cure cancer or prevent people who don't deserve it from dying."
?
A month later, on December 8th, I gave my life to Christ.
I’d been told how, but I never thought to actually pray to God before that point.
Praying was never something I did. But I learned.
I heard Jawar talking to Him in the middle of the night, and I figured there had to be something to it.
If a man like Jawar could find peace in a place like this, I wanted what he had.
It didn't matter what Jawar had done before this. He was my brother now, and I accepted him as he was. His life was changed; the man standing before me was the man he chose to be. Just like he told me, the man I was now was all that mattered, not what I did out there. That’s how God sees it, and that’s how Jawar saw it.
Early that Friday morning, I asked him, "How do you do this? Like, how do you start the whole thing with God or Jesus?"
"You talk to Him like you're talking to me," Jawar said. "Tell Him what's on your mind."
"I thought He already knows."
"He does," Jawar smiled. "But He knows it's also for you.
Humans aren't telepathic; we don't talk that way. What's in you needs to come out. Whenever you’re ready, He’s always going to be there waiting for you, man.
There's a reason you're still here. It's because He knows you need Him, and you have a lot more work to do. "
That night, while everyone was sleeping and Jawar was out cold on the top bunk, having given me the bottom while I was still recovering, I eased myself to my knees. I was still feeling weak, but I was determined. For the first time, I legitimately talked to God.
"Dear... God? I think there’s one of you up there.
Or maybe you and Jesus and someone else, I’m not sure.
But I... I don't know what to say. First of all, I guess I’m sorry.
And, um... my life is fucked. I don't know why I'm still here.
I feel like you tried to take me out several times.
But if it was you trying to do it, I feel like you would have been successful by now, right?
Or maybe you're trying to teach me a lesson. "
I spoke softly into the dark, my hands clasped over the bed, on my knees. I felt stupid talking to the air, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. Something had to be listening.
"For all I know, it’s just the doctors that kept me alive and everything that happened is pure coincidence.
But on the off chance that you’re real...
I want to make amends. I don’t know you, but I’m guessing you know me, and you know I’m not a nice person.
I thought I met you at one point, but I don't even know if that was you. When I was little... I thought if I met you, I’d ask you, 'Why do you hate me so much? '"
I gulped, feeling the shame rise up.
"But I don’t gotta ask that now. Because I understand. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry to everybody that I hurt. And I’m sorry because... because there’s a part of me that doesn't fucking care."
My voice broke into a sob.
"But I wanna care. I spent my whole life learning not to give a fuck about anything because the minute that I did, it was taken from me.
I just wanted to not focus on the pain anymore, you know?
I don't know anything about you. I'm just talking to the dark.
But if you are there... my friend says I should give my life to you and watch you work.
I've gambled with so many other things and I'm always open to trying new things.
So... I guess you're the only drug I haven't tried. "
I sniffled, putting my forehead against the edge of the mattress, trying to find the words.
"Just... please help find me. I don't know who I am or why I'm here.
I don't know what I want. I don't even know what to ask you, to be honest. But I guess I owe you my life because you saved me for whatever fucking reason.
So take it, I guess. Kill me or save me or whatever.
It's yours. I don't know what to do after that, but I'll let you do it your way since...
clearly my way isn't working. I'm here. But that's not so bad, is it?
Monsters like me deserve to be locked up in cages.
I'll stay here as long as I need to. Maybe longer.
So people can be safe from me. Until you fix me.
If that's possible. I mean... if you want to. "
I remember that prayer like it was yesterday. Kneeling there on that cold floor, half my blood feeling like it had been drained from my body. It took me getting to that point to even consider trying something so crazy.
I don’t know if Jawar had been listening, but three days later he came to me with a huge grin.
"God works in mysterious ways, baby goat."
"What do you mean?" I asked, smiling back.
"Bird got transferred," Jawar said. "He’s gone. Shipped out to a maximum-security facility this morning. You’re never gonna have to see that man again."
Usually, an inmate like Bird would have stayed put pending his hearing, but the paperwork moved at a speed that didn't make sense for prison bureaucracy.
It felt like the hand of God just reached down and moved him out of my path.
It made me feel like there was something to this, that maybe I was being watched over.
The following year, my life started to look up. Everything seemed brighter. My personality was changing, like I’d been in this old, crusty cocoon for years and had no idea I had wings. I finally took flight on January 12th when I was baptized right there in the facility.
That entire year was just... joy. My perception morphed. I never missed a day of prayer, holding hands with Jawar in our cell. Jawar would laugh louder than I’d ever heard.
"What's so funny?" I asked him once.
"Man, you're making my ears crack and dry off my head with how much you talk about God now!" Jawar laughed. "Before, I couldn't even get you to give me an inch, and now look at you. You're burning a hole through my Bible pages. We need to get you your own."
I started preaching to the other inmates, and they started calling me "Preacher.
" For the guys who couldn't make it to chapel, I’d take Jawar's Bible out during recess and preach the scripture one-on-one, laying hands on them and believing for them. My faith grew, and it made life worth living. It was better than any drug. I started having dreams where God told me that while I’d made mistakes and hurt people, He wanted me to use my life to help others like me.
The next answer to my prayers came when I started feeling shame about my tattoos. I had a lot of lewd ones, including a gigantic demon clawing at my back that symbolized the darkness that always held me.
It was empty and void inside.
I realized I’d spent my life pouring all the wrong things into myself. I thought about the women I abused, the fights, the substances.