But tonight, I put my hands behind my head and lay back on the flimsy pillow. I open the mental floodgates and for the first time since I entered this place, I let Matthew in. I don’t stop the images. I don’t put a block on them or filter them. I let them flow in and surround me. I practically bathe in them. I think about my father, no doubt dying in that same bedroom he shared with my mother. I think about my mother who died when I was eight years old and yes, I realize that I never quite moved past that. I can’t see her face anymore, haven’t been able to conjure up her image in many years, relying on those photos we had on the piano more than anything from my memory banks. I picture Aunt Sophie, my wonderful Sophie, the kind and generous woman who raised me after Mom died, the celestial being whom I love unconditionally, still trapped in that house, caring no doubt for my father until his final breath.
A sound by my cell door makes me cock my head.
Night sounds are not uncommon here. They are awful sounds, sounds that chill a man’s blood, unescapable, constant. This wing is not full of men who sleep soundly. Many cry out in their sleep. Others like to stay up at all hours and chat through the bars, reversing their internal clocks, staying awake all night vampire-like and sleeping during the day. Why not? There is no day or night in here. Not really.
And of course, there are men who openly masturbate with far more lusty pride than discretion.
But this sound, the one that makes me cock my head, is different. It is not coming from another cell or the guard booth or anything involving the general population blocks. It is coming from the door to my cell.
“Hello?”
A flashlight lands on my face, momentarily blinding me. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. I block it with a cupped hand and squint.
“Hello.”
“Stay still, Burroughs.”
“Curly?”
“I said stay still.”
I don’t know what’s going on, so I do as he asks. We don’t have traditional locks and keys in Briggs. My cell door works off what’s called a “slam lock,” an electromechanical system that automatically deadlocks. It is all controlled by levers in the guardroom. The doors only work on keys as a backup.
Which Curly was using now.
I have never seen the key used before.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
“No need,” I say. “I feel fine.”
“Not your call,” Curly says in a near whisper.
“Whose call it is?”
“Ross Sumner has filled out an official complaint.”
“So?”
“So the doctor needs to catalogue your injuries.”
“Now?”
“Why, you busy?”
His words are typically sarcastic, but his voice is tight.
“It’s late,” I say.
“You’ll get your beauty sleep later. Get your ass up.”
Not sure what else to do, I stand. “You mind taking the light out of my eyes?”
“Just move.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“You and Sumner got this place riled up. You think I want to do that again?”
That makes sense, I guess, but again the words ring hollow. Still, what choice do I have? I have to go. I don’t like it, but really, what’s the big deal? I’ll go. I’ll see the doctor. Maybe I’ll smirk at Sumner lying in the bed.
We leave our block and start down the corridor. Distant shouts from the general population bounce off the concrete walls like rubber balls. The lights are dimmed. My footwear is prison-issue canvas slip-ons, but Curly’s shoes are black and echo off the floor. He slows his step. I do the same.
“Keep walking, Burroughs.”
“What?”
“Just keep going.”
He stays half a step behind me. We are alone in this corridor. I sneak a glance behind me. Curly’s face is ashen. His eyes glisten. His bottom lip is quivering. He looks as though he might cry.
“You okay, Curly?”
He doesn’t reply. We pass a checkpoint, but there is no guard here. That’s odd. Curly unlocks the gate with some kind of fob. When we reach the T-intersection, he puts his hand on my elbow and steers me to the right.
“The infirmary is the other way,” I say.
“You have to fill out some forms first.”
We move down another corridor. The sounds of the prison have gone from faint to nonexistent. It is so quiet I can hear Curly’s labored breaths. I don’t know this section of the prison. I’ve never been here before. There are no cells. The doors here are pebble-glassed like shower doors. Philip’s office had a door like this. I assume I’m in some kind of executive area where we will meet up with someone who will help me fill out the paperwork. But there are no lights coming through the pebbled glass. It feels very much as though we are alone.
I notice something else now that I hadn’t before.
Curly is wearing gloves.
They are black latex. Guards rarely wear them. So why now? Why tonight? I am not one who believes you always go with your gut or follow your primitive instincts. They often lead you in the wrong direction. But when you add it up — the gut, the instincts, the hour, the excuse, the gloves, the route, Curly’s attitude, his demeanor — something is definitely off.
A few days ago, I wouldn’t have cared much. But everything has changed now.
“Up ahead,” Curly says. “It’s the last door on the left.”
My heart is thumping in my chest. I look up ahead, at the last door on the left. That too has a pebble-glass door. That one too has no light coming through it.
Not good.
I freeze. Curly stays behind me. He isn’t moving either. I hear a small sound coming from him. I slowly turn. Tears are flowing down his face.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Then I see the glint of steel.
A blade is heading straight toward my stomach.
There is no time for thought or anything beyond a reaction. I lean my body to one side while hammering down toward the blade with my forearm. The blade veers off course just enough — it misses my right side by no more than an inch. Curly pulls the blade back hard toward him, slicing through the flesh of my forearm. Blood spills, but I don’t feel pain. Not yet anyway.
I leap back. Curly and I are a few feet apart now, both in fight crouches.
Curly is crying. He holds the blade in front of him, like a scene from a poor man’s West Side Story. Sweat coats his face, mixing in with the tears.
“I’m sorry, Burroughs.”
“What are you doing?”
“So sorry.”
He regrips the knife. I’m holding my forearm, trying to stem the blood that’s seeping now through my fingers.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
But Curly isn’t listening. He lunges at me. I jump back. There is a rushing sound in my ears. I don’t know what to do. I know nothing about knife fighting.
So I do the simplest thing I can.
“Help!” I scream as loud as I can. “Somebody, help me!”
I don’t rely on that, of course. This is a prison. I’m a prisoner. People are yelling crazy shit in here twenty-four seven. Still, the suddenness of my scream makes Curly pull up. I use that. I turn and sprint down the corridor, back toward where we came from. He chases me.
“Help! He’s trying to kill me! Help!”