Page 82 of Babalon

“Wow, I am sorry to hear that, Lucien. I pray that she is with God.”

“Me too, William, me too.”

My little visit with William wasn’t what I would call memorable but it was interesting; I was able to wander around the prayer hall for a while longer before I was dismissed. With a nod of my head, and William giving a little wave, I left, stopping by commissary on my way back. I secured a little bartering system with a couple of cracked-out inmates. They assured me they could obtain a pack of cigarettes in exchange for buy-able call time—I guess they had been cut off or are being punished. Either way, I don’t have anyone to call home for so they are welcome to mine.

It is interesting how Darkwater has that system set up, you don’t get a card or anything to stick into some slot like you would a floppy disk—no, you’re provided with a one-time redeemable code that you have to try your hardest to press into the damaged screen of the call monitors.

They have a built-in camera not only for recording the call but for video calling—which the bugs are still being worked out of since it is relatively new tech.

Either way, I get what I need and am on my way to the rendezvous point with Sean, I think that’s his name.

“Ayeeeee, godly man,” he croons when I step around the corner that usually leads to the back of the vacant hallway— it’s a wonder they allowed this part of the prison to remain open. Not very smart on their part.

“That’s not my name and it’s blasphemous, so watch your mouth.”

Sean put his hands up in the air in surrender as I cut my eyes towards him— a stupid look on his snaggle toothed face.

“My man, I meant no harm. You bring what I need?”

“I did, and you? I want to see them unopened before I give you anything. I might not care about a lot but getting some disease because your filthy mouth licked the filters is not something I will tolerate.”

“Hah! Nah, friend, I don’t do all of that. I got what you need here.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jumper and when he pulls his hand out there the white and red package is—still cocooned in its cellophane. I scowl at him, watching him rigidly as he steps closer, holding out both hands. One with the Lucky Strikes and the other empty; waiting for the code he needed for the call.

I linger for a moment before snatching the box from his palm, handing him the piece of paper the commissary tenant gave meand pivot on my heel. There was nothing else to be said, I got what I want; something to take the edge off.

“See you again soon, Lucien!” Sean calls out, which I didn’t turn to acknowledge.

My hands rip and peel at the plastic wrapper while my pace quickens. I can taste the tobacco on my tongue already, the anticipation building in my body where I am fumbling the contents. Even dropping the small match book that Sean had taped to the backside of the pack. With a grunt, I lean over and snatch the little black booklet up from the ground and go on about my way.

I have stood out in the rec yard watching inmates of all sorts for the past several weeks. Observing their mannerisms and what they do when they think no one is watching; obviously they were not as alone as they thought they were. Seeing them sneak off into different blind spots hoping a guard didn’t stumble across them in any act that violates the rules established by the prison. Don’t they know that there was no means of atoning for the sins in which they have committed? Why try to hide the things about yourself that others would consider disgusting. We do not exist on this planet to please other people around us, but to serve the one true god.

People can hide and try to keep their secrets but the Lord knows better than to fall for the lies of a weak man.

Off at the far end of the yard in whole, there is a worn patch of grass that has since dried up from the lingering sun; the scorching thing holding on tight to the last remnants of summer. As I approach it, I drop down, planting my backside directly on the dried space. Then lean back against one of the chain link fences.

Beyond here, about four feet, is another fence, then another beyond that, with razor wire coiled in spools that run the entire length of the fence, topped with another layer like a copious dollop of whipped cream. While a mote doesn’t exist around the prison, there lies another barrier on the other side of the last fencing, a concrete wall that reaches up so high inmates can barely see the tops of the trees.

The warden doesn’t want any of us going anywhere, and I do not blame him. He wouldn’t get the financial payout from the government for his little vacations if he allowed any of us escape. While the prison itself looks imposing, there’s always some way out— even if it’s in a body bag.

With my legs bent in front of me, I scan the rec yard before me, hands anxiously fiddling with the pack of cigarettes and the matches. Prying the little box open, I withdraw one and place it between my lips. The object trembles as I fight the matches. Striking a few duds before one starts to blaze, I light the cancer stick and suck in the deepest breath I can muster.

Pure euphoria rolls through me at the airy feel of smoke filling my lungs, the nicotine quickly calming my frayed nerves. My heavens, a fresh puff of smoke is not what I thought I needed but I have been led astray before.

Reaching my free arm out, I drape it over the top of my spread knees, and sucked down the burn of tobacco like it’s my last gasp of air.

Imagine my surprise when several of the race groups start to rally around one another. Speaking with obvious tension that radiates off them in swaths. Until this point, I have not been curious enough to obtain their names, I only needed faces. The Lord maintains their monikers.

When you gather names, it becomes personal too.

They mull around, discussing something hush-hush until a few of them scatter off leaving the white ones lingering aroundin their own little circle. An urge to learn what is happening pulls me up from the sitting position I was in, then across the yard in just a few moments.

“Never thought I’d see the day where men of your complexion would have a conversation with others without some sort of threat,” I spoke, testing the waters while dropping my cigarette butt to the ground and stomping out the cherry.

“The fuck are you?” one of the shorter ones asks, standing between myself and the tallest in their group.

Pipsqueak is what I will call him.

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