Page 45 of Babalon

Following the line of new prisoners, we head to D Block. Its hall is nestled between one that leads to the medical bay and the north wing which looks to hold the library and nothing else since the directional plaques are empty outside of that singular one.

Moving down the corridor, we pass through another pair of open doors. This whole place is connected, which is odd. They must have faith in their security here, or they are anticipating the inmates killing each other so they have fewer mouths to feed.

Pops would be proud.

When we make it to the empty cells, Clark starts to pass out cell assignments. Inmates disappearing into their new homes one at a time, and every once in a while, two enter and we will move on to the next. Finally, it was my turn. I stop looking around, absorbing all of my surroundings, finally givingmy attention to Clark. His own skim a clipboard briefly before speaking, not giving me the courtesy of looking up.

Yes, yes, I hope he bleeds.

“Inmate Lucien Charles Bardot, number 783516, this is your cell. You will be housed with inmate Andreev. You two boys behave, and God forbid, don’t be weird.”

Without blinking, I turn and step into the cell, almost needing to duck down to get through the open bars. I typically tower over most people, so it’s nothing I’m not already use to. My new roommate, however, is bulkier than me despite also being shorter. His arms and chest, from what I can tell, are covered with fading blue patchwork-style tattoos; his jumper hanging down and the sleeves tied at his hips leaving his upper half only in his sleeveless undershirt.

Did he dress down just for me? He really shouldn’t have.

“Privet,” Andreev said, lifting two fingers to give me a salute.

Odd.

“I don’t know Russian; you’re going to have to speak English or don’t talk at all.”

I suppose he understands that because he shuts up real fast.

This must be the Ritz Carlton of cells with two separate beds instead of a bunk. One on the left, where Andreev sat, and one on the right with a cardboard mattress. I’m sure it feels better than the ground I have fallen asleep on countless times before. Behind that was the prison's version of a nightstand, err, table, I guess. Beyond that was the stainless-steel toilet, built-in sink, and splash guard wall.

Not bad, I have definitely lived in worse.

Making my way over to the table, I neatly arrange my new belongings before taking the linens that were left on the small bed and start to dress it. Though, outside of jail, I look like a gutter rat, I do like order. What did Pops always say? Cleanliness is next to Godliness, which is probably why I’m a murderer.

On one hand, I am well put together and well-mannered, but then on the opposite one, I put off an aura of black; nothing more, just black. I used to scare the other kids in school and the neighborhood we lived in which was more than once since we tended to move around a lot. My parents were, well, chaotic in a way. Mom died when I was seven after marrying the Joe she was selling her body to.

That’s my father—the Joe.

I was a shock to their senses—never planned, never wanted. Mom was on her own for a few months before she met my Pops. She was working as a corner whore to pay for her habits versus getting off of them and getting straight. One night, after work, Pops cruised by and propositioned her.

You could say that was the night I was conceived, but I’m not quite sure. I’ve never been interested in their love story, especially when my father started to rant and rave about how he hated that he had me with such a piece of trash. I didn’t know any better. I love her in a way only a little boy with a broken mother can.

When she was finally gone, he packed all of our things, and we moved out of the apartment we had only lived in for few months and put us up in a local church. The church allowed us to live on the premises, in the renovated basement, as long as my dad turned to God and was paraded around as the ‘example’ of how to become a different version of yourself, a better version, and one devoted to our maker.

I’ve never had what I would consider a good life, but I’ve managed to make it this far. Pops took to God's word relatively easy, but I took a bit more convincing, making my teen years unsavory. I got in trouble a few times, was kicked out of class, had a fight here and there, then drugs but that’s just typical rebellious teenager behavior.

No bad deed goes unpunished, however.

There were many times where I was stripped down to nothing and beaten in front of the clergy. Their eyes followed me every time I moved, but my sounds and prayers didn’t bring relief. There wasn’t any sort of begging that stopped my Pops from beating me, and no amount of pleading with the men that witnessed his brutality. I had to learn to shut it all off and turn my consciousness to the light, so God's warmth could hold me through the punishments that followed.

Finishing my bed, I sense Andreev moving behind me and I turn. Looking down at the shorter Russian man when he hooks his thumb over his shoulder towards the open bars.

“I… uh... American lunch,” he stammers. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was slightly unnerved, but it’s probably just him attempting to speak English. I wonder what he is in here for. This is a maximum prison, yet they have a few inmates that don’t actually require that strict level of supervision. This is just the closest facility the government could throw them into and forget about them.

“Thank you, Andreev,” I reply with a nod.

I do enjoy a good language barrier, and so does the Lord. It makes it easier for me to hear him when he speaks to me; there’s no need to drown out the noise if there isn’t any. Receiving the word directly from him is what led me to the crime I committed to be sent here. There are so many lost souls in prison and they all need to atone, then turn to God before they can ever make it into the halls of Heaven.

Looking over my space once more, I decide that it is as put together as it is going to be, so I follow him. Several other inmates mull around us, some of them making comments about fresh meat which is a term I have heard plenty of times, but ‘June Bug’ was new to me. I am going to have to get on par with the prison lingo quickly if I want to make any headway.

I have plans to make it out of here and they start now.

Never one to turn away any sort of food, I lean over my tray at the very back of the cafeteria, watching everyone from my seat, choosing to shovel the flavorless food into my mouth like a heathen. My gray eyes flick from one inmate to the next, memorizing their physical traits until I am able to obtain a name and decide if they are going to be useful or not. Most of them I will likely never deal with, but I want to make sure I cover all of my bases.

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