Page 64 of Shame

No one appears to be a threat, but I guess I won’t see it coming.

As I keep my eyes on the crowd, I make my way to cell seven. On the lower cot lies a fat old man with a gray mustache and only dirty strips of white hair on his head. He reeks of old sweat. Terrific.

I cock my head in a greeting, then I toss my towel and toothbrush on the upper cot before I hop up and fall on my back. With my arms under my head, I stare at the chipped ceiling and wonder how many hours I have. Or will it be days? Weeks? I can’t help hoping for hours. Better to just get it over with than having to look over my shoulder every single moment, never knowing when the strike will fall.

“What’re ya in for, son?”

I jerk when I hear the raspy voice from below.

“I thought you didn’t talk about that on the inside. Some code, or something.”

He scoffs. “Indulge me.”

Murder scene after murder scene run through my mind, all ending up with me prone on the floor with a gun to my head.

“For being incredibly stupid.”

He laughs. It sounds like his throat is trying to remember how. “Aren’t we all?”

The first day nothing happens. I don’t get to go out on the yard. I’ve missed lunch and my stomach is in uproar when it’s time for dinner, which proves to be infamously disgusting. I always thought people were exaggerating. Maybe the food is better in prison, but I’ll never reach prison, so I won’t know.

My body aches to exercise, but I hesitate to seek out the so-called gym. Lots of death traps in there. Instead I do hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups, and everything I can where I use only my bodyweight as leverage.

The second day, I crawl all over. My cellmate doesn’t shower. He really fucking doesn’t shower. I can’t stay in here, so I make my way to the gym anyway. I grab the towel. Shower afterwards. Maybe it’ll be fast? I won’t go down without a fight, though. No fucking way in hell.

I’m not alone. Three men are pumping away furiously, muscles bulging under extensive tattoos, wife beaters drenched in sweat, their jumpsuits tied around their waists. There’s not a lot of equipment. No fancy machines. A punching bag. Free weights. dumbbells, a couple of barbells and a pile of plates, all of them heavy. Nothing in here for newbies. The walls are discolored and could do with some new paint on the chipped pale-yellow shades.

I grab a barbell and begin to load it as I study the three men out of the corner of my eye. None of them seem interested in me. None look Italian. There are two black guys, one with a body to die for, no joke, and one heavy-set, but clearly strong as an ox, and one pale guy with a clean-shaven head and red bushy eyebrows.

I work hard, pushing myself to the limit, and past it, trying to rid myself of the pent-up energy, the adrenaline spikes that had never had their release, but just piled up in a knot of constant unease.

I’m punching, and kicking the punching bag, when a draft hits my sweaty back. The remaining guy in the room looks up and begins to back away. Every sense stands on high alert as I spin around and dodge to the side, grabbing a dumbbell in one smooth move.

I take a passive defensive stand as I take in the guy who has entered. My heart thuds even heavier than the exercise managed. It’s the dude from the holding cell yesterday, and he’s definitely out to get me.

He gives me a glance, his black eyes flashing, then he cocks his head to the other guy to get lost. He doesn’t have to be told twice and scampers out of the room in a flash.

I begin to work my biceps, up, down. Up, down, as I keep him in sight. He grabs a barbell. The same heavy one I used a little while ago.

“You can tell Salvatore to go fuck himself,” I say, switching arms, taking a step to the side, putting the bench between us.

Beginning a lift, as if he’s gonna pump it, he then swings around, aiming it for me in a slow, but lethal move. I jump back, my reflexes are well practiced.

“Brave words from a dead man.” He retreats and circles the bench, making a stabbing motion with the barbell. It’s an impressive move because it’s heavy as fuck.

“You gotta do a hell of a lot better than that, guinea,” I spit, tossing the insult in the hope it’ll piss him off.

He barks out a laugh. “The fifties called. They want their slang back.”

He jumps up on the bench and throws himself at me. I dance to the side as he swings the barbell again. Before he can break the momentum of the movement, I dart forward and slam the dumbbell to his temple, hearing a loud crack. Thirty pounds connecting with the thin bone does its job. The barbell slams to the floor and the hit man falls like a log.

So fucking slow and stupid.

Blood begins to pool under his head, forming a deep red, slowly growing puddle on the painted gray concrete floor. I don’t bother to check if he’s dead. Even if he survives, this particular guy won’t be a threat to me again.

I drop the dumbbell, step over the body and leave the gym. I’ve given myself some respite, for better or worse. They’ll come at me again, and the next time there’ll be more than one guy.

Carmen

---