The Escape

Chapter 5

 ‘You think you’re lucky?’ The man sounds Hispanic. As if he’s inches from my face. Hot air blows against my skin. I’m drenched with sweat. The room spins as I open my eyes revealing a figure standing underneath a single light bulb. Everything appears wavy and blurred. ‘How long have I been here?’ I wonder, staring at the silhouette. A plume of smoke billows out of his nostrils. The light overhead emphasises his bony facial features.

‘I suppose you think you’re here because you are wanted, because you feel needed. Am I right?’ He takes another puff of his cigarette. I watch as he paces back and forth underneath the light.

‘You think you’re here because you’re valuable, you’re necessary, that you’ll serve some purpose other than eating, sleeping and shitting. Correct?’ His bloodshot eyes lock onto mine. Blood sluices to my legs. ‘That’s the problem with you convicts. Always thinking there’s some part of you that did good in life. Put behind bars thinking that it wasn’t your fault. Its society that’s been doing you over because of all of the regurgitated crap they feed you in school, the media, television, the works. Stop me if I’m wrong.’

I couldn’t reply if I wanted to.

‘All of this bullshit that goes into your heads. You think you’re the first guy who ever got put in the hole just ‘cos of some lousy crime your mother probably wouldn’t have wanted you to do. Another product of society, another name on the list. A poor old bastard who can’t get a job if his life depended on it so has to spend the rest of his days serving hot dogs to some off-duty cop who doesn’t give a shit one way or the other. Please, do interrupt if I’m telling it wrong.’

The hut is silent, apart from a gentle breeze whipping in through the open door. The man takes out a revolver, its casing glints in the light.

‘See, the problem with people like you is, you don’t have any respect. You think that the way you act is okay. That people like us, hard working, honest people who sweat night and day to feed their families and put food on their table, should give up their time, their money, their prized possessions for sorry fat asses like you? Is that what you think? If it is, you’re going to have a hard time explaining it to me.’ he laughs to himself, waving his revolver around as if it were a pen.

‘There’s something I don’t like about people like you. Can’t say it’s the accent because you haven’t said a thing since you got here. How could you? You’re filled to gills with morphine and acids.’ he laughs as he paces back and forth in front of me. I watch as he scratches his cheek bone with the barrel of the gun. ‘There’s just one problem I can say that I can live with and it’s hard for me to even make peace with that. And do you know what that is?’ I want to shake my head but can’t. I blink repeatedly hoping it might serve as an answer. ‘Is that you’re not one of them bloody blacks. God, if you had a different shade I swear you would be lying on that sand right now bleeding your brains out from one of my bullets.’

Cold sweat runs into my eyes. Heart pounds in my ribcage. There’s nothing more that I want to do than flee from this place, escape by any means necessary and run as fast as my legs can carry me. I watch him carefully. Watch as he paces the small hut back and forth, stroking his pistol, waving it as he speaks. He uses his gun as a comb, fixing his wild unkempt hair in a broken piece of reflective glass in the corner. I catch sight of two other guards. Both stand to attention holding their rifles by their sides. Their expressions remain deadpan, staring straight ahead. A convection unit hums next to the makeshift bed. Hot air blows against my skin further stifling the air inside.

‘You’d better thank your stars that you’re alive. I’ve had worse men than you come here thinking they could show up and tell me why they think they should be let go. You. I can’t let you do that. You look as if you could be of some use when you get fixed up.’ I still have no idea what he means. ‘How does he know me?’ I think, watching as he paces from one end of the hut to the other. Sensation begins to return. The bed frame constructed of twigs and sticks digs into my underside, poking into my ribs and lower back. It feels as if I’m lying on a bed of nails.