Ruthless: A Short Story
They say your first night is the worst. Your bed is stiff from somebody else’s sweat and urine, and the thick stone walls are cold and bare. The harsh bright light of the watch tower cuts through the 10” x 10” window and the steel bars cast an icy shadow across your eyes. The flushers on the toilets don’t work regularly, and the septic smell from it seeps into your clothes. You can almost see the vomit and piss stains fuming from the floor. You don’t know if you can trust the one you share this box with, so you sleep with your butt cheeks clenched together so hard that if you cough, you might shit yourself. Then there’s the heckling. It comes at you from all directions like a swift changing breeze, though, the sounds carried by these breezes are the soulless, empty voices of the damned. It’s here that you find what having no remorse sounds like. I’ve got nothing in common with these men. They say these walls can take a man’s soul and turn you into something less. Some say this place will turn you into a killer. I’m already a killer. But these men are brutal, cold blooded murderers.
“Hey fish, you’re not gonna cry, are you?”
“You better shut up Jimmy. Leave my girlfriend alone.”
“I got something for your girlfriend.”
“Hey fishy…HEY FISHY FISHY!”
“You gonna bleed for me boy. That ass is mine.”
Fish is what they call the new inmates. Fresh fish. And that’s exactly what I am. I’m not a big man, and I‘m very soft spoken. On the outside I was a salesman, and a young family man, but I had a drinking problem. I got into a fight with my wife over some bad investments. I loved my wife. I bet my son’s college fund on a football game, and lost. I guess you could say I had a gambling problem too. We got to yelling, and she gave me a hard slap across the face. She was a hard hitter. She was the kind of woman who preferred a ball game to a ballet. Lily hardly ever wore make up, though it’s not like she needed it, except to cover up this tiny scar under her chin. When she was a teenager, she was throwing the football around with her brothers. She loved roughing it with her brothers. She went out for a pass, ran face first into a tree, and ended up with eight stitches right under her cleft. Except for that scar, she was perfect. She had blonde hair, green eyes, fair skin, and she was tough as nails. A real fire cracker. That’s why I married her.
My temper, mixed with the booze, got the best of me and I clocked her pretty hard. I didn’t realize at the time, but that one punch shoved her nose bone up into her brain and killed her. The coroner said it split her lobes and shut off her ability to breathe or perform simple motor functions. By the time the blood started draining into to her mouth, there was no way to stop herself from drowning in it. I didn’t know it, but my 6 year old son saw the whole thing. Danny had gotten out of bed to get a drink of water from the kitchen and heard the yelling. I can still see the look on his face the moment after his momma hit the ground. It was that honest look of shock and disgust that you get from a child when you tell them you’ve got to put the dog to sleep. I tried to stop him from screaming. I tried to comfort him, but he kept crying and shouting for momma to get up. I pulled him into the kitchen and held my hand over his face as hard as I could, until he stopped. And he stopped. I suffocated him. I loved him. I loved them both so much. It all happened so fast. I stood up and looked around the house. The bone white tile that spanned the kitchen floor was splattered with blood, and littered with the lifeless bodies of my little family. My son’s eyes were looking up at me in a cold, accusing stare. Both of their gazes were fixed on me, pouring the guilt on like salt in an open wound. I grabbed the phone cord and ripped it out of the wall to string myself up, but a neighbor from the next house over heard the argument and called the police. They kicked the front door in just in time to cut me down from the ceiling light. I didn’t really see the point. I figured I would have been hanged anyway. I couldn’t foresee a punishment worse than death.
But the courts could. The judge said sentencing me to death would be too easy. She said I deserved a fate worse than death. They gave me two life sentences for my wife and son’s murder. When I heard those words “Guilty, your Honor”, I took a good hard look at my surroundings. I knew I would never see another clean, clear glass of water like the one sitting right in front of me, or the distinguished clothing of each person in the court room, or the way the sun beat through the big glass window and heated up the wooden pulpit in front of me. And a sense of irony overcame me. I saw the beauty of the free world being taken advantage of by the smug onlookers who wanted to see me suffer. I never wished harm on my wife. I never wished harm on my boy. And for the rest of my life the people in that court room, or the people who watched the news or read the papers will say I deserved worse. On my way out of the court that day, all I wanted to see was the way the sun hit things, and my wife and son’s faces.
It’s nearly sunrise and I haven’t slept. I can hear the guards changing shifts. They will go home to their families, their wives, their sons. I sit up in my bunk and put my hand on the cold stone wall. I step out of bed and hang my arms out my tiny window. My cell mate stirs and makes for the toilet. He’s a stocky guy with more hair on his forearms than his head. He hasn’t said two words to me since I’ve been here. I try to pay him no mind, and let him go about his business. He walks back and leans in over my shoulder.
“Don’t matter how hard you stare, you ain’t never gonna get over it.”
I can’t tell if he’s talking about the crime, or the high prison wall, but either way, he’s right. And I know he’s right. I’m not cold blooded or ruthless, but we’ve got something in common. We’re killers, and it takes one to know one.
“Hey fish, you’re not gonna cry, are you?”
“You better shut up Jimmy. Leave my girlfriend alone.”
“I got something for your girlfriend.”
“Hey fishy…HEY FISHY FISHY!”
“You gonna bleed for me boy. That ass is mine.”
Fish is what they call the new inmates. Fresh fish. And that’s exactly what I am. I’m not a big man, and I‘m very soft spoken. On the outside I was a salesman, and a young family man, but I had a drinking problem. I got into a fight with my wife over some bad investments. I loved my wife. I bet my son’s college fund on a football game, and lost. I guess you could say I had a gambling problem too. We got to yelling, and she gave me a hard slap across the face. She was a hard hitter. She was the kind of woman who preferred a ball game to a ballet. Lily hardly ever wore make up, though it’s not like she needed it, except to cover up this tiny scar under her chin. When she was a teenager, she was throwing the football around with her brothers. She loved roughing it with her brothers. She went out for a pass, ran face first into a tree, and ended up with eight stitches right under her cleft. Except for that scar, she was perfect. She had blonde hair, green eyes, fair skin, and she was tough as nails. A real fire cracker. That’s why I married her.
My temper, mixed with the booze, got the best of me and I clocked her pretty hard. I didn’t realize at the time, but that one punch shoved her nose bone up into her brain and killed her. The coroner said it split her lobes and shut off her ability to breathe or perform simple motor functions. By the time the blood started draining into to her mouth, there was no way to stop herself from drowning in it. I didn’t know it, but my 6 year old son saw the whole thing. Danny had gotten out of bed to get a drink of water from the kitchen and heard the yelling. I can still see the look on his face the moment after his momma hit the ground. It was that honest look of shock and disgust that you get from a child when you tell them you’ve got to put the dog to sleep. I tried to stop him from screaming. I tried to comfort him, but he kept crying and shouting for momma to get up. I pulled him into the kitchen and held my hand over his face as hard as I could, until he stopped. And he stopped. I suffocated him. I loved him. I loved them both so much. It all happened so fast. I stood up and looked around the house. The bone white tile that spanned the kitchen floor was splattered with blood, and littered with the lifeless bodies of my little family. My son’s eyes were looking up at me in a cold, accusing stare. Both of their gazes were fixed on me, pouring the guilt on like salt in an open wound. I grabbed the phone cord and ripped it out of the wall to string myself up, but a neighbor from the next house over heard the argument and called the police. They kicked the front door in just in time to cut me down from the ceiling light. I didn’t really see the point. I figured I would have been hanged anyway. I couldn’t foresee a punishment worse than death.
But the courts could. The judge said sentencing me to death would be too easy. She said I deserved a fate worse than death. They gave me two life sentences for my wife and son’s murder. When I heard those words “Guilty, your Honor”, I took a good hard look at my surroundings. I knew I would never see another clean, clear glass of water like the one sitting right in front of me, or the distinguished clothing of each person in the court room, or the way the sun beat through the big glass window and heated up the wooden pulpit in front of me. And a sense of irony overcame me. I saw the beauty of the free world being taken advantage of by the smug onlookers who wanted to see me suffer. I never wished harm on my wife. I never wished harm on my boy. And for the rest of my life the people in that court room, or the people who watched the news or read the papers will say I deserved worse. On my way out of the court that day, all I wanted to see was the way the sun hit things, and my wife and son’s faces.
It’s nearly sunrise and I haven’t slept. I can hear the guards changing shifts. They will go home to their families, their wives, their sons. I sit up in my bunk and put my hand on the cold stone wall. I step out of bed and hang my arms out my tiny window. My cell mate stirs and makes for the toilet. He’s a stocky guy with more hair on his forearms than his head. He hasn’t said two words to me since I’ve been here. I try to pay him no mind, and let him go about his business. He walks back and leans in over my shoulder.
“Don’t matter how hard you stare, you ain’t never gonna get over it.”
I can’t tell if he’s talking about the crime, or the high prison wall, but either way, he’s right. And I know he’s right. I’m not cold blooded or ruthless, but we’ve got something in common. We’re killers, and it takes one to know one.