Bits And Pieces

by Nicholas Antinozzi

The yard is concrete and there is a pine tree that stands defiantly against it. I spend my time out in the yard as close to that little tree as I can get. I like to lean against it and later, when I’m back on the inside, I can smell the tree on my clothes and it reminds me that there is a great big world outside of this place.

  Battleship grey, the effect is suffocating; there is so much of it here that it physically assaults your senses. The color surrounds you with depression and is a constant reminder of the purpose of this place. There is no laughter here, no color, nothing to look forward to; every day is a repeat of the day before, which was a repeat of the day before that.

  Time passes slowly.

  I am surrounded by angry, bitter men who pass their time by plotting against each other. They are evil incarnate and that is the reason they are incarcerated here. There is no place for them on the outside world. The new ones arrive daily, leaving their shattered lives behind them to dwell in this place of perpetual limbo. They cry at night and the sound resonates inside the walls. I used to take pity on them, but I must’ve used it all up. I am now consumed with a terrible sense of apathy and I do my part to share my misery with others.

  The walls are tall and topped with concertina wire, guarded by angry men with guns. I dream of joining them on top of those walls, where I’d spend my hours looking away from this merciless place. I think that I’d like to paint a picture of what I saw on the outside, using bright, lively colors and my limited skills. Yes, I think I would like that very much.

  One sound dominates all of the others on the inside, that sound is the closing of heavy steel doors and of locks clanging back into place. The sound is like a kick in the stomach.

  I look into the mirror and can see what ten years on the inside has done to my face. I moan, because I know the awful truth is that I have another twenty to put in. I am consumed by that knowledge and it eats at my inner being.

  I walk outside and the sunshine nearly blinds me. I am drawn to my little tree and I see there is a commotion in the yard. The tree is gone and all evidence of it ever having existed, have been erased by a fresh layer of concrete. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I feel nothing but rage. They have taken my tree; the one thing that made this slice of hell tolerable.

  I grit my teeth and move upstream against the flow of swirling inmates. Something inside of me has been thrown like one of the heavy locks. My time here is done, I can take no more. John Martin and Charlie Reece are sitting at the console, watching the dozens of television monitors and making small talk. I bowl with Charlie and John lives two blocks from my house.

  They wave at me as I join them inside the room. I can see they are wondering what brings me into their little world, but I ignore them. I use my key to unlock the arms locker and choose a weapon. In death, I go off in search of some bright, vibrant colors and hope to find my favorite tree.

  The Cold Shoulder