sentence, but his mind is set on making this early morning the beginning of his last day.
From the start he’s felt that he’s been treated unfairly.
His record included aggravated battery, failing to register as a sex offender resulting from an ill-fated relationship with a fourteen-year-old girl, and his latest armed robbery. All three offenses occurred in the first six months following his eighteenth birthday.
He smirkingly admits to all of the crimes, but he feels his sentence is the result of an unfair state law requiring a three-time felon to be issued the maximum sentence for his convictions.
He has shouted to everyone around him about the unfairness of receiving a harsher sentence due to past crimes, spouting about backwoods double jeopardy and that sentencing should have nothing to do with one’s previous record. Yet, he didn’t mind the light sentence he had received for his initial battery charge since it was his first and only offense at the time.
His prison stay has been mostly quiet, having been thought to be involved in several group beatings although no evidence could be brought against him. Guards considered him a ringleader,a boss among a faction of the inmates, but always one degree away from being incriminated.
An unexpected fight last week hospitalized his cellmate, who is aptly named Owl after his robust eyebrows, so he now shaves alone in front of a mirror with a smuggled razor, not the inferior safety razors that are standard issue. His shedding metamorphosis requires a sharper blade.
His face stings with the air tingling over freshly exposed skin. His unkempt beard was part of his persona, hiding his human features behind its fur-like mask. It was as attached to him as his bed is to the floor and the polished stainless steel mirror is to the wall in front of him with its eight tamper-proof screws holding it snugly secure. As his mane is removed from his skull in rows, he feels free of the life he’s made in jail and unbound from the narrow rectangular brick cell.
A somber exhale escapes from him as the razor pulls the last strands from his scalp.
He splashes hot water atop his head. Despite the failings of prison life, the water has always arrived hot and fast at the turn of the sink’s left handle. Using his polyester bedspread, he wipes away the slain hair remnants from his head.
Taking one more pass with the razor, he cleans up the missed spots. The mirror begins to get hazy making it harder to see the new him, and he turns the hot water down. Throughout his life, excessive heat has often made it hard for him to get a good view of himself.
Tossing the polyester cover atop the bed, his attention returns as it always does to the bars at the open end of his pen. Across the spaces between the bars, walks the man with clothes in his hands.
“Hello, Edmund, glad to see you up this early in the morning and being so industrious at that,” whispers the man standing at the locked door in a short-sleeved collared shirt and neatly-pressed, gray, pleated pants.
“I’ve told you not to call me Edmund; my name is Eddie.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re in much of a position to bargain, Edmund. I could just take your money, make it disappear, and you’d still be here—locked away.”
“You wouldn’t last a week out there if you crossed me.”
“Out there maybe. But, in here,” wrapping his fingers around the metal rods, “there are these strong bars keeping all the bad people on the other side.”
“Not all of them.”
Smiling and looking down at his shined shoes, “Just realize I’m the one who got you this private cell and put that razor blade in your hand.”
Shaking his head and struggling to keep his voice at a whisper, “So, you put that crazy idea in Owl’s head?”
Nods.
“Poor bastard, nobody’s been dumb enough to fight with me since the first week I was in.”
“I hear he’s healing nicely.”
“What’d you promise him?”
“A visit from his
From the start he’s felt that he’s been treated unfairly.
His record included aggravated battery, failing to register as a sex offender resulting from an ill-fated relationship with a fourteen-year-old girl, and his latest armed robbery. All three offenses occurred in the first six months following his eighteenth birthday.
He smirkingly admits to all of the crimes, but he feels his sentence is the result of an unfair state law requiring a three-time felon to be issued the maximum sentence for his convictions.
He has shouted to everyone around him about the unfairness of receiving a harsher sentence due to past crimes, spouting about backwoods double jeopardy and that sentencing should have nothing to do with one’s previous record. Yet, he didn’t mind the light sentence he had received for his initial battery charge since it was his first and only offense at the time.
His prison stay has been mostly quiet, having been thought to be involved in several group beatings although no evidence could be brought against him. Guards considered him a ringleader,a boss among a faction of the inmates, but always one degree away from being incriminated.
An unexpected fight last week hospitalized his cellmate, who is aptly named Owl after his robust eyebrows, so he now shaves alone in front of a mirror with a smuggled razor, not the inferior safety razors that are standard issue. His shedding metamorphosis requires a sharper blade.
His face stings with the air tingling over freshly exposed skin. His unkempt beard was part of his persona, hiding his human features behind its fur-like mask. It was as attached to him as his bed is to the floor and the polished stainless steel mirror is to the wall in front of him with its eight tamper-proof screws holding it snugly secure. As his mane is removed from his skull in rows, he feels free of the life he’s made in jail and unbound from the narrow rectangular brick cell.
A somber exhale escapes from him as the razor pulls the last strands from his scalp.
He splashes hot water atop his head. Despite the failings of prison life, the water has always arrived hot and fast at the turn of the sink’s left handle. Using his polyester bedspread, he wipes away the slain hair remnants from his head.
Taking one more pass with the razor, he cleans up the missed spots. The mirror begins to get hazy making it harder to see the new him, and he turns the hot water down. Throughout his life, excessive heat has often made it hard for him to get a good view of himself.
Tossing the polyester cover atop the bed, his attention returns as it always does to the bars at the open end of his pen. Across the spaces between the bars, walks the man with clothes in his hands.
“Hello, Edmund, glad to see you up this early in the morning and being so industrious at that,” whispers the man standing at the locked door in a short-sleeved collared shirt and neatly-pressed, gray, pleated pants.
“I’ve told you not to call me Edmund; my name is Eddie.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re in much of a position to bargain, Edmund. I could just take your money, make it disappear, and you’d still be here—locked away.”
“You wouldn’t last a week out there if you crossed me.”
“Out there maybe. But, in here,” wrapping his fingers around the metal rods, “there are these strong bars keeping all the bad people on the other side.”
“Not all of them.”
Smiling and looking down at his shined shoes, “Just realize I’m the one who got you this private cell and put that razor blade in your hand.”
Shaking his head and struggling to keep his voice at a whisper, “So, you put that crazy idea in Owl’s head?”
Nods.
“Poor bastard, nobody’s been dumb enough to fight with me since the first week I was in.”
“I hear he’s healing nicely.”
“What’d you promise him?”
“A visit from his
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