Dying to Live

Chapter 25 - Thumbs Up

"See you soon," said Frenchie over his shoulder as he started to tap on the door.

TIPPETY-TIPPETY-TAP. TIPPETY-TIPPETY-TAP.

A guard opened the cell door and the five men slipped out.

My body convulsed as it tried to recover from what was far and away the most hideous experience of my life, and it could have been so much worse. The whole episode was horrific on every level imaginable. The feeling of total helplessness when the men pinned me down will live in my nightmares for ever. The rape itself was a horror film in action, and I'm not even sure if a thumb up the bum counts as rape. But worst of all, the guards must have been complicit in the assault which meant there was no one here to protect me, this sort of attack could happen at any time of the day or night. I started to sob again, but this time with feeling.

I didn't get any sleep, how the hell could anyone sleep after an experience like that?

"Slop," shouted the guard.

I grabbed the slop bucket and followed him to the toilet and shower area. The rank stench forced me to retch but this time I didn't actually vomit. Maybe I was starting to toughen up. I emptied the bucket and washed my torso. I couldn't have a shower because there was no way to get my trousers over the shackles. I thought about showering without undressing but decided I could make myself ill sitting about in wet trousers all day.

The place was a morass of bodies, some dressed and some naked, some oriental and some black, some skinny and some ripped. Every size and shape of human being was on display. Bodies shoved, jostled and hustled their way through the mass. When I got shoulder bumped, I tried to stay strong, bumping back where possible. Never show weakness, never. Years of watching prison dramas on TV had taught me that. A couple of Europeans gave me the thumbs up sign. I gave them a double thumbs up back which made them laugh. I thought they were being friendly until I saw Frenchie behind them. He was giving me a thumbs up too and I realised what the bastards meant. Jesus, I'd never be able to make that gesture again for as long as I live. Thanks, you cunts.

"Don't mess with them," said an American accent in my ear. "They rule the Europeans."

I swung round to find myself three inches from a battered and scarred face.

"Fuck."

"Hello to you too," said the Yank.

"Sorry, I'm so on fucking edge and you're right in my face."

The man took half a step back. He was a small, harmless-looking bloke but I wasn't about to take any chances. He sensed my hostility and raised his hands in a placatory gesture.

"Don't sweat it, mate, I'm an outcast, just like you."

"I'm not an outcast," I said, but I knew I was. I wasn't a part of any gang, or group, or clique. I was alone in this hellhole. Maybe the guy in front of me was my first chance to have an ally. Maybe if enough outcasts stuck together they could watch each other's backs.

"Oooh, you're an outcast all right. The guards decide what group you're part of. You're European so those guys over there rule your life, same way as they rule mine."

"But you're American, not European."

"I'm white, so I'm in with the Europeans. The guards don't recognise accents, they just divide us based on the colour of our skin."

"That's a bit fucking racist."

"Listen, buddy, you need to learn to keep those sorts of thoughts locked up inside your head. We're in the Euro group so if we step out of line we'll suffer, and most of the guards will do frig all to stop it."