CHAPTER 8

Dimitri

Life in prison was harsh. Another day gone and dusted, just to repeat it again and again. 

I walked out to the yard. It was the only place in this shit-hole to get some fresh air. The yard was large with a gym section I worked out on most mornings, but usually kept it to a minimum. Too many inmates hanged around there, that meant too many gangs. I avoided all prison gangs at all costs.

Besides the yard, the only place I ever bothered to go was the library. It was the only other place to find solitude besides my cell, few inmates went there. Catching up with Jimmy, the only decent guy that I knew, was a plus up there, too. The only other place I was constantly at was in the washrooms, where I worked for about $5 per week. It wasn't much, but I got me a few things I wanted, like purchasing dirty magazines for one.

I ran around the spacious yard, breathing in the chilled air. It was cold this morning. The grey tracksuit pants and jersey weren't doing very much. The beanie on my head didn't help either.

Your life was a clock in prison. 6:30 am, the bells rang to wake up. 7am to 8am was breakfast time. You can't sleep late in prison. Not that I mind. The dreams haunted me in my sleep. I had no peace. 1pm was lunch and 5:30pm was supper. In between, you either did your job or have some time for yourself.

I missed the outside life. The simple things I missed the most. Buying my own coffee, sitting down at a diner, ordering my favorite breakfast or just taking a drive downtown. But deep down, I knew I deserved each day in this hellhole.

A few guys ran alongside me. They didn't bother me much. Since I came here seven years ago, I've established a certain reputation. The fights back then earned me decent respect. They knew me as Bleeder, a nickname I earned back in the day. But I don't fight anymore. Maybe I don't have any fight left in me.

I keep mostly to myself as much as I can. Being noticed here only gets you hurt or worse... killed. And I don't want unnecessary drama that could risk chances for my parole hearing coming up soon.

I stopped my lap and breathed in deep. The air burned my lungs, but I liked it. I liked the pain. It made me feel alive. You had to keep yourself sane, or else you'll rip your hair out or worse. But after some time, you get used to it and it just becomes everyday life.

I headed next to the gym area and did my daily reps. Fifty push-ups, Fifty sit-ups, bench presses, and lifted some weights.

The sweat dripped from my forehead, hitting the back of my neck. My muscles ached. I always pushed myself to the limit. But I needed to be strong, to feel strong. I returned to my cell, that was in the west wing of the prison, before my job at the washrooms started.

Once inside. I grabbed my towel and soap and headed for the showers. The showers were large, and at least spaced out. That was a good thing. I stood underneath the faucet. Cool water cascaded over my tattooed back. Hot water was a luxury in prison you didn't get often.

I grabbed my soap and washed the sweat off my aching muscles, started with my neck working my way down my body. I only had tattoos on my upper body, I had a hawk on my upper chest which crawled up to my neck. A lion bearing teeth on my back with the Latin words 'Luctor et Emergo' which meant I struggle and emerge, and tribal tattoos on both my arms, with my nickname 'Bleeder' on my right tricep. Each tattoo had a meaning. They stood for who I was. I showered quickly. I hated the idea of staying too long.

***

I worked in the east wing of the prison, opposite where my cell was, washing and steaming sheets. It was tedious work. But it kept me busy and out of trouble, at least.

"You got three loads today," the superintended said.

The superintendent was an inmate too, who just got promoted. He was a mean son of a bitch. I nodded in response. He passed me the heaped baskets filled with dirty sheets. I put on my washed-out green apron and got to work. After about three hours, all my loads were done. I packed away the empty baskets, took off my apron and hanged it up. I headed for the exit, only to be blocked by the bastard's enormous body.

"Hey where do you think you're going?" the superintended sneered. I looked straight ahead, ignoring him before I answered.

"I'm done with my shift." Avoiding eye contact. Damn, this guy could be a fucking jerk some days, heck, most days. And I wasn't in the mood for trouble.

"No, you're not asshole. Here's another load coming in." He bellowed.

My eyes met his snarky gaze. I knew this guy was trying to bait me. Lucky for him, I wasn't taking it. I had too much at stake. And that was a possibility of freedom. I curled my fists into balls at my sides and clenched my jaw, trying to control my anger.

The superintended snapped me back to reality.

"Hey... what you gonna do about it!" he came up to my face. I could smell his rotten breath and his gold tooth glaring at me.

I grimaced.

"Nothing." I took the load.

Damn, I always was a hothead and still am, but prison has taught me to cool it off. I had to admit; the itch was always there to fight.

To punch.

To slam some guy's face against the cold floor.

To knock him out until he fell limp.

It made me feel good. It released my aggression built inside me of years of neglect. Fighting was my life. I was damn great at it, and in turn, attracted Big Ben's attention.

I was only Fifteen years old when he recruited me.