Page 15

Chapter thirteen

Lucien

Present Day

“ W elcome to Darkwater Correctional Institute. You have been delivered here because you were deemed unworthy to remain free within society. You have been convicted and have thus given up your rights to freedom within the United States. While you are here, you are a ward of the state of Michigan and Warden Durden. You will be given two pairs of jumper uniforms, two pairs of undergarments, three undershirts, three pairs of socks, one pair of shower slides, and one pair of work boots.”

“As a Michigan state ward, you may not be facing the death penalty for your conviction, but you will spend your sentencing working as the Warden sees fit. You will have weekly visitation as long as you abide by the rules of the institute. If you disobey, you will be faced with a plethora of consequences ranging from additional work to solitary confinement. You will remain under constant supervision ranging from Correctional Officer observation to video and audio surveillance.”

“Please place your belongings in the brown sack, take the uniform provided, and change in the bathroom to your left.”

How quaint, they have a rehearsed welcome message for everyone.

Reaching out, I maintain eye contact with the officer while I grab the items he pushed across the countertop. His dark-colored orbs holding my stare as if he were trying to intimidate me; good luck. I have done this enough times to know all their little scare tactics. I’ve also been through enough in my life that this guy wasn’t about to put the fear of God in me, no matter how hard he tries.

Jail is the least of my concerns. To me, this is just a hotel stay.

My Pops made sure I was a devout man, and no one can pry the Lord from my hands nor make me fear my savior; the one that was going to save me from an eternity of damnation.

When the officer finally breaks eye contact, I walk over to the small room he intends for me to change in. Closing the door behind me with a soft click, I lock it and start peeling the layers off my body, the fabric falling to the dirt-stained tile floor.

Once I stand bare before the metal mirror, my head tilts to the right as I look over the scars and tattoos that litter my body. My back, covered in old, self-inflicted whipping marks, evidence of the countless time spent atoning for my sins. My wrists mirroring the damage from the nights where I nearly let myself bleed out.

They say the body is a temple and to not scar it, but the Lord said to punish the wicked, and I am as wicked as they come. I thrive on the pain, on the violence, and on seeing others suffer for little to no reason–that is why I am here.

I was convicted of premeditated murder while trying to appease my savior—ridding this world of sinners. I just happened to get caught. Well, actually, I volunteered to come to prison; I want to be here. That’s where the premeditated part comes in. My victim, as they call him, was selected out of a pool of others. Someone who met my criteria for being wiped off God's green Earth.

I came to the great state of Michigan to do it. A man of prominent stature was leading the flock astray, brainwashing his congregation; he had to be removed. It also just so happens that someone I knew long ago was a guard here, and I am dying to see them. Well, really, I wasn’t, but others were.

Losing track of time, the harsh sound of a fist slams against the door and yanks me from my thoughts.

“Hurry the fuck up, inmate,” a man belts through the wood barrier.

I turn and look at the back of it without saying anything. People are always in such a rush nowadays; maybe I need to teach him a little lesson on slowing down and enjoying the finer things in life.

Like not bothering me, we can start there.

Snatching my new clothes off the bench, where I placed them on when I first came into the room, I pull on the thin boxers and the white shirt, followed by my jumper which I zip up to my sternum, finishing off my new ensemble with the change of socks and shoes.

I now look like the rest of them, outside of the stringy and unkempt black strands of hair that brush over my forehead. I am going to fit right in with the rest of my brethren, the sinners, and the black sheep.

Folding my clothes up, I don’t bother checking my appearance again as vanity is a sin. Instead, I open the door and step past the officer who now stands too close for comfort.

“Took you long enough, freak. Get back to the counter and finish turning your items in. I have shit to do and can’t be escorting you around all day.”

He won’t get a response out of me. I’m more controlled than that.

Moving back over to the counter, I exchange my clothing for my freedom.

“You all squared away, inmate?” the first officer, Officer Kepner, asked.

“I am.”

“Very well, follow Officer Clark out, and he will take you to your cell. Make the most of your time here, and again, welcome to Darkwater Correctional Institute.”

Following the one deemed ‘Officer Clark’ with another guard at my back, I make my way to the group of other newly inducted inmates who were transported with me. We we all line up against a wall, at the far side of the room, as a few other guards stalk around ensuring no one gets too excited and starts to act out.

If they did, I hope they take Clark out first— I bet he bleeds pretty.

“Alright inmates, we are about to head through the next checkpoint. From here on out, if you deviate from this line, you will be reprimanded, and my men have the authority to use whatever force is necessary to get you back in line. Do us a huge favor and keep it fucking straight, and we will get you to your cells before lunch.”

Hmmm .

They’re hands-on here. I’ll need to get a few things prepared when I get to my cell. Hopefully, I am with someone who keeps their head down and says nothing. I’d hate to have to remove his wagging tongue from his mouth.

A couple of moments later, the line begins to move, then we step through another gate, moving deeper into the belly of the prison to a great room with several hallways branching in every direction. Some of them labeled with ‘library, medical, administration, cafeteria’ etcetera. The ones that were attached to the blocks have large letters plastered above the center of each corridor.

The entire prison is shaped like a snowflake, like the classic Eastern State Penitentiary, an amazing piece of American history. This place must have been built around the same era, then modernized as time passed. The solid stone structure, looking like a castle set back in the gloom of fog and hills, has to be sitting on top of a spiderweb of basement tunnels where staff would confine more inmates when the land ran out of space for expansion and the architect had no choice but to move underground.

Darkwater is fascinating, to say the least.

Following the line of new prisoners, we head to D Block. Its hall is nestled between one that leads to the medical bay and the north wing which looks to hold the library and nothing else since the directional plaques are empty outside of that singular one.

Moving down the corridor, we pass through another pair of open doors. This whole place is connected, which is odd. They must have faith in their security here, or they are anticipating the inmates killing each other so they have fewer mouths to feed.

Pops would be proud.

When we make it to the empty cells, Clark starts to pass out cell assignments. Inmates disappearing into their new homes one at a time, and every once in a while, two enter and we will move on to the next. Finally, it was my turn. I stop looking around, absorbing all of my surroundings, finally giving my attention to Clark. His own skim a clipboard briefly before speaking, not giving me the courtesy of looking up.

Yes, yes, I hope he bleeds.

“Inmate Lucien Charles Bardot, number 783516, this is your cell. You will be housed with inmate Andreev. You two boys behave, and God forbid, don’t be weird.”

Without blinking, I turn and step into the cell, almost needing to duck down to get through the open bars. I typically tower over most people, so it’s nothing I’m not already use to. My new roommate, however, is bulkier than me despite also being shorter. His arms and chest, from what I can tell, are covered with fading blue patchwork-style tattoos; his jumper hanging down and the sleeves tied at his hips leaving his upper half only in his sleeveless undershirt.

Did he dress down just for me? He really shouldn’t have.

“Privet,” Andreev said, lifting two fingers to give me a salute.

Odd.

“I don’t know Russian; you’re going to have to speak English or don’t talk at all.”

I suppose he understands that because he shuts up real fast.

This must be the Ritz Carlton of cells with two separate beds instead of a bunk. One on the left, where Andreev sat, and one on the right with a cardboard mattress. I’m sure it feels better than the ground I have fallen asleep on countless times before. Behind that was the prison's version of a nightstand, err, table, I guess. Beyond that was the stainless-steel toilet, built-in sink, and splash guard wall.

Not bad, I have definitely lived in worse.

Making my way over to the table, I neatly arrange my new belongings before taking the linens that were left on the small bed and start to dress it. Though, outside of jail, I look like a gutter rat, I do like order. What did Pops always say? Cleanliness is next to Godliness, which is probably why I’m a murderer.

On one hand, I am well put together and well-mannered, but then on the opposite one, I put off an aura of black; nothing more, just black. I used to scare the other kids in school and the neighborhood we lived in which was more than once since we tended to move around a lot. My parents were, well, chaotic in a way. Mom died when I was seven after marrying the Joe she was selling her body to.

That’s my father—the Joe.

I was a shock to their senses—never planned, never wanted. Mom was on her own for a few months before she met my Pops. She was working as a corner whore to pay for her habits versus getting off of them and getting straight. One night, after work, Pops cruised by and propositioned her.

You could say that was the night I was conceived, but I’m not quite sure. I’ve never been interested in their love story, especially when my father started to rant and rave about how he hated that he had me with such a piece of trash. I didn’t know any better. I love her in a way only a little boy with a broken mother can.

When she was finally gone, he packed all of our things, and we moved out of the apartment we had only lived in for few months and put us up in a local church. The church allowed us to live on the premises, in the renovated basement, as long as my dad turned to God and was paraded around as the ‘example’ of how to become a different version of yourself, a better version, and one devoted to our maker.

I’ve never had what I would consider a good life, but I’ve managed to make it this far. Pops took to God's word relatively easy, but I took a bit more convincing, making my teen years unsavory. I got in trouble a few times, was kicked out of class, had a fight here and there, then drugs but that’s just typical rebellious teenager behavior.

No bad deed goes unpunished, however.

There were many times where I was stripped down to nothing and beaten in front of the clergy. Their eyes followed me every time I moved, but my sounds and prayers didn’t bring relief. There wasn’t any sort of begging that stopped my Pops from beating me, and no amount of pleading with the men that witnessed his brutality. I had to learn to shut it all off and turn my consciousness to the light, so God's warmth could hold me through the punishments that followed.

Finishing my bed, I sense Andreev moving behind me and I turn. Looking down at the shorter Russian man when he hooks his thumb over his shoulder towards the open bars.

“I… uh... American lunch,” he stammers. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was slightly unnerved, but it’s probably just him attempting to speak English. I wonder what he is in here for. This is a maximum prison, yet they have a few inmates that don’t actually require that strict level of supervision. This is just the closest facility the government could throw them into and forget about them.

“Thank you, Andreev,” I reply with a nod.

I do enjoy a good language barrier, and so does the Lord. It makes it easier for me to hear him when he speaks to me; there’s no need to drown out the noise if there isn’t any. Receiving the word directly from him is what led me to the crime I committed to be sent here. There are so many lost souls in prison and they all need to atone, then turn to God before they can ever make it into the halls of Heaven.

Looking over my space once more, I decide that it is as put together as it is going to be, so I follow him. Several other inmates mull around us, some of them making comments about fresh meat which is a term I have heard plenty of times, but ‘June Bug’ was new to me. I am going to have to get on par with the prison lingo quickly if I want to make any headway.

I have plans to make it out of here and they start now.

Never one to turn away any sort of food, I lean over my tray at the very back of the cafeteria, watching everyone from my seat, choosing to shovel the flavorless food into my mouth like a heathen. My gray eyes flick from one inmate to the next, memorizing their physical traits until I am able to obtain a name and decide if they are going to be useful or not. Most of them I will likely never deal with, but I want to make sure I cover all of my bases.

In front of me, just off to the right, a commotion catches my attention. Nothing like a little show for the new group, I suppose. What began as a heated discussion has now morphed into something much more entertaining.

I keep my eyes on them while most of the other inmates stay in their seats except for a few that do not want anything to do with the show. They put their trays away and leave before the guards can rush the two men dueling it out just ahead of me; the sound of squelching from a stabbed object making me smirk and pull my attention away from my food.

That sound gives me chills.

“That’s why you let them skinheads fuck you raw in the shower you goddamn traitor!” One man belts out.

“The kinfolk knew you were letting that white fucker dick you down, and now that we know why, you’re as good as dead,” another said in a calmer manner.

Wow, talk about dramatics.

A few more stabs land in the abdomen of their new enemy, spraying blood out across the floor and flooding the man's jumper with red.

“Hey!”

‘Here comes the sun, doo do do doo,’ I sing internally, guards rushing around the tables packed with prisoners over to the ongoing fight. My spoon steadily introducing bite after bite of food to my waiting mouth.

It’s going to be fun here.

When the theatrics are all over, and the cafeteria is cleared out, I put my tray away and walk over to the crime scene. There are pools, droplets, and sprays of blood everywhere. The custodial crew, if Darkwater even has one, has yet to arrive and clean up the biohazard. The homemade shank still lying on the floor from when the guards tackled the main assailant. Stepping over to it, I crouch down and snatch it up.

I may need it later.

It is sturdy with a thick handle that won’t slide very easy if it gets fluid on it. It’s made from a mix of wax and fabric, then the end of it is a broken kitchen utensil sharpened into a jagged point. My guess, it is from a spoon since knives aren’t allowed in here and the ones in the kitchen are likely chained to the tables. Making them near impossible to move, let alone make a weapon.

Pocketing the shiv, I take a moment to look around at all the blood. It is beautiful, splattered and smeared around in different arrays of patterns and concentrations. This is what gives humans life, what keeps their bodies from breaking down, and moves oxygen from one cell to another then back to the heart and lungs. The human body is amazing when considering what it can endure. Everything from psychological torture, physical brain damage, shredded limbs, the loss of blood, to cancer that eats away at a person's bones.

They’re amazing, we’re amazing.

Humans have the capability to bounce back from any illness if they have the means to fight through it. There are only a few things the body can’t endure, and I look forward to finding out what those things are, whether that be in here or outside as a free man. My days of cleansing the globe are far from over.

With a slight lean, I swipe my hand through the blood and bring it up to my nose, inhaling deeply to the point I can nearly taste its metallic tang. The coagulated globs leave myoglobin along my fingers to the point I now itch to lick the crimson from my skin.

If today’s any indication of how my stay is going to be, I am happy to be here.

Welcome to Darkwater Correctional Institute, indeed.