It’s mid-December. You wake up curled tightly in a ball. On your left side in the fetal position. Both hands tucked tightly between your knees. Someone’s banging on your door. You open your eyes. You’re naked. Laying on cold cement.
“Get on your knees. Go to the back of your cell and kneel down. Interlock your fingers and place your hands on your head. That’s a direct order.” A voice screams at you.
It’s breakfast. In order for you to receive Your Rotten Bologni you must comply. You attempt to comply. To uncurl yourself from your fetal position. You can’t. Your neck is jacked to the left, stuck in a muscle cramp. You cry out. Spittle runs in a gluey string from your mouth. Down your cheek. Into your hair on the cement. “Ahhh.”
“Pussy. Lay there like the dog you are. Bet you’re hungry. What is it, a week since you ate? Good. I hope you die. You bastard…” The voice laughs. Closes the cuffport. Locks the window-flap. Walks off.
A tear runs down your cheek. Into your spittle. Into your hair. You still can’t move. For the past two weeks, twice a day, officers and medical technicians have shot you up with Thorazine and Haldol. You beg them to please don’t. You don’t want it. Please. No.
The door opens. Several officers and a nurse enter your cell. They are talking about the TV-show “Survivor.” A foot nudges your side. The needle enters your buttocks. Empties. They stand around talking about “Survivor,” looking at you. One guard kicks you. Laughs. They depart now talking about “American Idol.”
The drug slowly starts to take effect. You unfurl. One leg stretches toward the ceiling. The moaning starts. From deep in the pit of your stomach long, peeling, unearthly animal moans. You can’t stop. Your leg won’t go down. It cramps into a “Charlie horse.” Sweat breaks out on your face. Another day. Solitary Supermax.
At about noon the guards find you with your face in the toilet drinking dirty water. You see, you are unable to stand and reach the sink. Though; the water is shut off even if you could reach the faucet. It took you all morning just to drag yourself over to the toilet. If you don’t drink, you’ll die.
“Get on your knees. Go to the back of your cell and kneel down…” Laughing. Shutting. Walking away.
You have about four hours to drag yourself to the back of your cell and attempt to kneel. Rotten Bologni sounds damn good right about now. As you crawl, slither, cramp and moan your way, you wonder:
“How will I be able to even chew. My jaw is cramped open and won’t shut.”
“The last captive to use this toilet had Hepatitis. Damn!”
”I hope Keri Underwood wins American Idol. She’s one of the finest. ..”
In strength (the beat goes on) and struggle,
B.
