Filters

Filters

Life behind bars isn’t what I’d call a life desired. I know people here, on the inside. I’ve learned that you need to know people to survive. Behind bars, knowledge is everything. Until your knowledge lends you a little message. A hint of what’s to come. Then sometimes, you wish you never had that knowledge in the first place.

But knowledge is funny like that, you know? You can’t unlearn something. You can’t just forget it ever happened and run along with your daily lives. You may be able to do that out there, on the outside. But on the inside, it’s an entirely different story. A whole new world. I grew accustomed to the bartering for position. I got used to winning bets for packs of cigarettes, only to sell them for better position again. I’ll admit it, it wasn’t that bad. Only at first, though. When I was the King, here. Like Elvis. Or Lennon… or is it Lenin? I can never remember which.

Well, anyways, most people kept their cigarettes. In here, cigs are gold. The “currency of the cage”, if you will. But not me. I’ve never been a smoker. Bad for your lungs. And their sort of an important part of life, you know? Plus, I’ve had asthma since I was a kid. I remember mother taking me to the hospital with the little yellow bears dancing on the walls. They probably thought it was a happy choice of children’s wallpaper. I always hated it. But the Arab doctors there always fixed me up. Told me I had to breathe through one of those inhalers whenever I felt an attack coming on.

So no cigarettes for me inside. It doesn’t bother me, I never understood ‘em anyways. So I just use them to better my position. But anyways, none of that matters like it used to. I always thought the little things are what matters. But in here… that’s just not true. The big things matter. I believe out there, in the real world they matter most, too. The little things are overrated.

Anyways, there was a man who was with us. Only, he was in uniform. Crazy bastard, he was. The only uniformed man to speak with us. It just so happened that he was the man who smuggled the cigarettes in for us. But he came to me one day while I was eating. Told me a few things, brought out my file. He basically told me that I’m a killer. That I was born a killer, a lying, son-of-a-bitch killer. But he liked me. A lot. He thought I was quite an intelligent fellow, or something. Said something about me reminding him of his son. Which I guess I should take as a complement.

He had a job for me, said I’d be spared if I’d do it for him. “They’ll all go easy on you, man. They gave me their word”. I had no reason to believe him. And I didn’t really know what the Hell he was talking about anyways. But I figured, what the fuck. It’s only livin’ if you’re on the outside. That’s how you learned to look at things in here.

So I took his offer. I have to kill. That’s the job. He wants me to kill. The prisoners who won’t talk. They all want me to do it. He told me about the human conscience (and the lack of) in people. I thought it was a whole bunch of bullshit, myself. But hey, whatever gets me out there, right?

I walked back to my place with the shiny new boots he gave me. And a dirty old uniform they found in some back closet somewhere. The boots had long black laces, with red stripes on them. They were the kind with the wax twisted ends. Good boots. They could probably support a young cow. I folded the uniform and set the boots beside my cot. I’ve always been sort of a neat freak, I guess.

Anyways, the next day I was supposed wake up early and follow someone outside. I was supposed to scare the prisoners into giving up some military secrets by killing them one by one. I didn’t really have a problem with them, but these people gave me new boots. It was a good deal, I’d say.

Before I was supposed to do my job, they took me into some back room. A large shelving unit was bolted to the wall with locks on all the doors. The men talked to each other quietly and quickly, and unlocked one of them. The guy I talked to the day before reached in and pulled out a new rifle. I thought they were just gonna’ shoot me. And that they took me in here so nobody would see it. But he handed me the gun and straightened the collar on my new uniform for me. The other guy gave me a pack of cigarettes. I said I didn’t smoke, but he didn’t want them back anyways.

They led me outside… it was nice. The first time out of those bars in months. It was quite…. Refreshing. Even the smell of corpses burning miles away was bearable, as it was better than no smell in months.

Nine men, all in various, shabby, sorry uniforms were lined up. All looking very proud and headstrong. I was in a way jealous, as they managed to hold their ground in such an awful situation. Those men started yelling at the tied up prisoners. Asking them questions, and threatening to beat them when they didn’t answer. The interrogator stepped back and looked at me. “George—the first one”. So I cocked the gun and just shot. I just shot the man, in cold blood. Because he wouldn’t answer a fucking question. Why didn’t he just answer the damn question? It was no big deal, he would have at least lived. Stupid people.

“George—the second”. So I shot him, too.

And then I shot the third one.

And then the fourth, fifth.

The sixth one fell on the ground, bleeding from the gunshot wound in his chest.

The seventh was lost.

I shot the eighth man.

There was one man left, and the officer said it again- “George—do it”. And I looked at him. Sort of a blank stare on my face; I was disgusted. I couldn’t believe it. One fucking question, and nobody would answer. So we killed them? Yes. We killed them all. I shot the last man. He died right there, on the unforgiving dirt.

And I rested the gun on the ground. I turned around, and I started walking back home. Back to where things made sense, and the little things didn’t matter. I went back to bed, reeking of cigarettes.