If I hadn’t stop to help that woman…who would be able to do something so cruel… I couldn’t have left her there to die. Justice never works. Maybe the clues were manipulated. Wrong place. Wrong hour. When you help you pay for it and when you don’t you do as well. So, what to do? Runaway….
I guess that god must be reading my mind, because the door of the cell begins to open. It is the guard. He looks at me with that bitter look, like if he is chewing a gum from the last century. He murmurs with a very strong accent from the north:
“…Come on, is the time for breakfast…”
I pass him and I feel his fear steaming out the pores of his skin. I look at him like trying to guess what is going on through is mind. I decide to keep on walking as I see that he begins to be nervous and touches his truncheon. As I go down I see the rest of the cellars full of pictures of necked women. I wonder why they like them, they look so artificial, all of them cover with makeup…maybe is the insecurity what makes women to put makeup on, or maybe they feel forced to…maybe is our fault, we are the ones that buy that magazines, but….
The sound of my steps going down the metal stairs wakes me from my thoughts. A long row of men fills the dinning room. Is sad to see that people from different cultures only live in community under the pressure of the law. Well, there are culpable people in any part of the world. But some times I think if all of these men are guilty. There seem to be people that don’t fit in here. I suppose I shouldn’t judge them by their appearance. Maybe that is one of the reasons why all of us have to wear the same orange overalls. But Even so, I can tell what type of persons they are. I can guess that the bold gay that stands near the column is worried about is appearance -at least that is the impression that gives off- he always keeps cleaning his boots and he is too concern about the dirt of the place. I wonder why he is here…and why he keeps on cleaning his boots.
A weighty hand touches my right shoulder. I try to guess who it is from, but I can’t think of any one.
“…Hey moose, let me go in before you,
“…Pufff! Go on, all the food in here tastes the same, corn and lamb…”
“…Ohhh! You are as cheerful as always”
“…Just go in. and, stop looking at me in that way. Is that clear?…”
“…Geoff, take a rest. You can’t start with that behaviour when the sun is not even in the middle of the sky”
“…Sorry…”
“…Look, don’t keep things in the shallow end if you don’t know how to swim. If you need help, I’ll be your float…”
“…OK, thanks…”
Luis Gullianotti, one of the few lads that I know in here. Poetic, as always.
I take one of the trays and a spoon with a twisted handle. The white mixture of rice and milk heats the tray like a meteorite dashing against the earth. Looks like vomit. I try not to think too much about it. I seat next to Luis. I try to hold my respiration when I swallow the mixture. It tastes so musty. I look up and I see Luis observing me. He has that look in his face again, but doesn’t say anything.
One of the most repeated phrases that my father used to say to me comes to my head
“…You are not going to go too far with that behaviour …”
I guess that he was right. I don’t have a family. No one is waiting for me outside. But I wish that this situation doesn’t stay like this forever. I am going get out of here. Sometimes I think that maybe this is a nightmare. The only thing that I have to do is open my eyes, or punch me against something. Hurt me. Wake me up. I just want to wake up from this nightmare. Disappear, no longer here.. I am going to go mad if I carry on like this. Escape. I feel trap. Every day the same word appears in my mind. Escape, but from whom? From here or from my self…
Name: Geoff Graffin
Date of birth: 8th of November of 1972
Nationality: Nampa, Idaho, United States
Job: unemployed
Family: no close family
Home: at the moment in prison
