“You’re halfway there, man. Halfway.” I yawned.
There was silence after that. I drifted to sleep, dreaming of Lyla and her sweet smile.
God, I missed her.
CHAPTER 25
x
SCOOP HUNG HIMSELF with his bed sheets with the words Daddy will always love you painted on the wall in his blood. I guessed it was too much for him to handle. Hell, it was too much for anyone. Rape was rape, and Scoop’s had been brutal.
I stood at my bars and watched as Scoop’s death scene unraveled. The sounds of the camera clicks filled my room as they took pictures of his body. The COs laughed and chatted about their day as if a human being wasn’t hanging dead from his cell window.
They didn’t know him, and they didn’t care. He was nothing but an empty cell now. He was a statistic in some file… a name to be blotted from roll call. Soon, there would be another inmate in his cell. They moved them out and moved them in just as fast.
The coroner came and made a few inquiries. I listen from my cell as he asked questions and took more pictures. He emerged with Scoop in a body bag some time later. I stood at the bars and watched as they rolled him down the block on a stretcher.
Would his family ever find out the reason why he’d taken his own life?
I hated myself for not fighting harder. I should’ve fought harder.
The urge to cry was strong when his body disappeared from sight, but I’d always known the number-one rule of prison.
Never get attached.
It’d gotten attached to Scoop. I trusted him. He was my friend in a friendless place and the only brother I ever knew. And now, because I’d grown weak over time, he was gone. He’d opted out of this life, taking the easy way out rather than reliving the heinous crimes against him over and over.
I was angry with him, but I understood. I’d known from the moment the rape was over that he’d never come back from it, and he hadn’t, not really. Scoop had died on the table in the laundry room a week before he hung himself. I’d seen the light go out in his eyes. I’d watched him leave us.
Everyone left. My mom left. Lyla left, and now Scoop. There was no one. There was no one left.
Even I was gone. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Was I X or had I become Christopher Jacobs again?
I didn’t know much, but I knew the agony that laced my nervous system after Scoop’s death quickly turned into revenge. The monster I’d kept at bay for so long was begging to be released.
I had nothing left to lose, so I let him out.
THE DINING HALL was silent when I entered the following day. Every eye was on me as I strode across the room and got in line for what looked like chicken and rice. I sat down at a table alone and stared off into space as I ate.
The days after Scoop’s death became a blur, and I drifted in and out of a strange state of mind. Hours would go by and I wouldn’t realize it. I would drift into my moments of emptiness and wake up in another part of the prison, unsure of how I got there. Things became dark for me, and I could feel myself shutting down completely.
Jose Alvarez and his boys were found murdered a week later, hanging from the showers. It couldn’t be tied to me, but again, everyone assumed it was me murdering everyone. It just so happened that everyone who was being killed at Fulton was somehow linked to me. I didn’t understand it, but I quit questioning it. Someone out there was doing my dirty work, and while I missed the thrill of watching the life leave Jose’s eyes, I appreciated whoever was committing the murders.
Another week went by, and I heard nothing else about my case. Things moved slowly in my world, which meant it could years before I was released. I wasn’t sure I would last that long. Taking the easy way out was starting to sound appealing, but every time I considered it, I’d close my eyes and see Lyla’s face.
She loved me. She was waiting for me. I couldn’t leave her. I wouldn’t leave her.
A few weeks after Scoop’s death, I began to hear the rumors. Whispers of Lyla’s name would skim past my ears, making me think that maybe I’d missed her so much I was hearing people say her name, but that wasn’t the case.
Sitting at the table, shoving an overcooked piece of pork down my throat, I heard an inmate behind me say her name. I spun around and before I realized what I was doing, I had him jerked up by his collar.
“What was that?” I asked through my teeth.
“I didn’t say nothing,” he lied.
He was scrawny. In his late forties, he had patchy facial hair and rotting teeth. And to top it off, he stunk like he hadn’t washed in months.
“Don’t fucking lie to me. I heard you say her name. You said Lyla Evans. What about her?” I hissed in his face, my fist tightening in his collar.