If a man tells you his story, you realise that there are so many things to be thankful for. This is an excerpt from a tale told to me a long time ago, by a pastor while i was serving time in prison for armed robbery. Enjoy.
The cell was cold and I had on my boxer shorts. Clothes were not needed in this place where those whom society rejected are left to wither away. We were all crowded together to foil the cold; twelve men in a room meant for two to four persons at most. I did not complain though; the crowded space helped to prevent pneumonia. Besides the torn carton on the floor, that served as a mattress, did nothing to prevent the concrete chill from seeping into my bones, so I shivered and curled tightly into a ball of depressed humanity. But this was better than the hot season when mosquitoes that, the older inmates say, are as big as flies, populate the cells. I was fine then, until I moved my body in search of more warmth.
A hand grabbed my balls and gripped it tight. I jerked in shock and a scream fled my throat but it was cut short as a hand gripped my throat in a choke-hold. I moaned as panic spread through my body. My eyes darted about, seeking for my assailant. A dark shadow displaced the darkness of the cell and Power climbed over me. His massive weight pinned my chest to the ground. I tried to struggle at first, the concrete floor with its numerous pockmarks stabbing my ribs and chest but I could barely breathe; his weight was immense and I have always been of a slight build. I struggled like a worm beneath him and he grunted a laugh close to my ear.
The tears came as he pinned my left hand to the floor while my right hand was imprisoned between me and the floor. I cried out and I received a blow to my face that rocked my brain. The darkness spun and tiny stars flickered to life in my vision. The iron taste of blood filled my mouth and the hand left my throat. As I drew breath to scream, my short was pulled roughly from my waist to my knees and another punch cut short my scream.
As I tried to find my way out of the pain, I felt his sour breath close to my ear again
" You should stop struggling. We are going to enjoy this ride and I will enjoy breaking you in. What a delight."
He whispered close to my ears.
“please, don’t do it. Please…” I whimpered beneath his suffocating weight. He said nothing for some seconds then I heard the spurt of spit. No sooner, his index finger, wet and slippery with his saliva invaded my anus and dug in like a leach. I let out a yell and his palm covered my mouth. A prison guard aimed curses at our cell for disturbing his snoring slumber.
Everywhere went still, then a bigger appendage delved into my anus and i screamed again. It had been well lubricated with copious saliva, Power had been dredging from his mouth but the pain was unbelievable. I screamed again into the listening night but no one muttered, not even the previously offended guard. The night was too quiet to be asleep. In my pain filled mind, I knew I had an audience to my shame. Tears spilled unchecked down my face to wet the concrete floor and grow a new crack in my soul.
I tried to relax my sphincter muscle but it was no use. I felt like I was being peeled like an onion; parts of me I didn’t know existed where been revealed. I screamed over and over again, as Power settled into his rhythm and slammed my body to the cracked concrete floor with every surge of his hips. My screams were now coming in parts; chapters of a song in pain. My breath was locked within my chest; I could do nothing but gasp for air. Power gasped too; He gasped his pleasure, his big brutish hands pressing my waist to the concrete floor with the weight of his shoulders behind it.
Then he came, shuddering like a rain drenched chicken. He shuddered then collapse on top of me, breathing heavily, his stinking sweat smearing my back. I laid there whimpering while the silent night listened, eyes staring in the dark. Power rolled off me to the floor. He breathed in deep then he laughed richly and patted my buttocks with his calloused palm. I laid still, afraid to move; pain riding through me in waves after waves.
I removed my hand which had been squashed beneath me and held it with the other hand. The hand tingled as blood started to flow back into it. I tried to turn but could only manage to lie on my right side, so I left it at that. I curled again in agony, waiting for a soothing word from my side but the silent watchful night had gone to sleep. I was alone in my pain; my audience had gone home, whether they had loved the show or not, I could not tell.
I stared to the wall in front of my nose, as I felt the trickle of what I hoped was semen and what I was sure was blood, flowing down the side of my buttocks down my lap to the concrete floor; a sacrifice of life to the gods that whisper of sin and punishment. I stared at the wall in the dark, seeing my future displayed vividly. I had several years to serve for stealing a phone. This was my first week. By the month end, I will be Power’s whore. He will be pimping me out for a song in three months and by my first year, I will be an overused asshole, probably dying of one sexually transmitted disease or the other.
Power sees the opportunity in forcing his fellow inmates to do anything he wanted because they were afraid of him and because he has the ear of the chief Warder. He lives like a king in this prison and the cell is his castle. The guards say nothing; they act like nothing is wrong. They laugh when they see me coming. He joins them and the other inmates in my cell grow quiet, listening as they did the first night; as they have always done. I have stopped the tears. After that first night, I was later gang raped by Power and his cronies and when I saw my anus wide open with an ugly prolapse, I stopped the tears and smiled at the heavens.
They say God searches the heart of every man or woman. I hope he has searched mine and has seen the pulsing darkness that lies therein. I have gone to his house; a chapel in this prison to tell him. The chaplain preaches of forgiveness and repentance. He preaches about the ugliness of sin and beauty of love but there’s no love here. God is not here, I tell you. Power cries every Sunday, on his knees, calling to God to forgive him his sins. The chaplain nods his head and prays with him. Every Sunday, he demands a blowjob after service before he pounds me down into the cracked concrete.
I have found a rope and I have found a tree. All I need is the space, the time and a knife; I will slit Power’s throat from side to side after a Sunday service. He will look real handsome with a new lip to grunt and chortle with. When I am done, I will set my soul free. Maybe there’s someone above who cares, maybe he understands that broken boys are babies that the world forgot.
THE END