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Mark sat on a worn bench in the exercise yard, squinting at the sun. He was meant to be walking around, doing weights, doing anything to keep himself moving in a large space for a while, but his whole body ached and he couldn’t lift himself up. He just sat in the sun, and wondered why he had taken it for granted for so long. There were so many things he had taken for granted: being able to open a door, eating food that wasn’t just the bare staples, walking on grass, having sleepless dreams. Now that was all gone.
He was still waiting to hear from his lawyers about whether the statement from his father would make any difference to his sentence. He wasn’t holding his breath. He figured if he expected the worst, whatever happened would have to be better.
He wondered if real jail was going to be like the remand centre. Here most people kept to themselves, unless they had known each other on the outside. The only time anyone ever talked to him was to ask for a cigarette, and he didn’t approach anyone else. He looked around at them now. Everyone wore the same green tracksuit and white sandshoes, everyone looked as if they hadn’t had any sleep for months. The ones who were awake looked like the types who were in and out of these places on a regular basis, and he kept well away from those guys. Half of them looked like they were looking for trouble, and the other half looked like they were in more than they could handle.
He watched a group of them on the other side of the exercise yard. About six of them stood huddled in the corner, talking in low voices and looking around. Something was going on, Mark could tell. He didn’t know what it was, and didn’t want to know. One of them looked at him, and Mark abruptly turned the other way. Don’t get involved, don’t even look, he told himself.
He decided he’d had enough sunshine and hauled himself off the bench. He started staggering back to the building door when he heard two of the men in the group yelling at each other. He turned to look despite himself, but already a crowd had grown around them and he couldn’t see. He kept moving at a slow pace towards the door, but with each step he took the yelling got louder and more voices joined in. Before he realized what he was doing, Mark had started moving towards the melee. As he neared the edge of the crowd, he heard the thud of flesh meeting flesh and all of a sudden he was on the rim of a brawl.
Men hit each other for no apparent reason, teeth flew, blood run out of noses and lips, and the noise grew louder by the second. Mark was hit on the chin by a wayward fist and thrown backwards. He hit the ground and lay there dazed. He looked up and saw the riot almost on top of him, so he started crawling away towards the door. He was half way there when someone stepped on his hand, and someone else tripped backwards over him. Mark’s temper flared instantly and he was off the ground in an instant. His arms flailed wildly and before he realized what he was doing he’d hit at least one guy. Mark came to and started backing off again before he did anything else stupid.
Behind him the guards finally came in, nightsticks raised. Mark stepped back even further until he was against the wall and right out of the crowd of rioters – the last thing he wanted now was to get caught up in something like this, when he was so close to being sentenced but couldn’t help but be transfixed by the drama before him. Guards threw prisoners against walls, prisoners threw punches at guards and one another alike, men on both sides hit the ground spitting blood. It was like watching a war.
At last Mark decided to leave this madness and get back to his cell. As he started moving towards the door, he stepped on something hard. He looked down. A homemade knife lay on the ground before him – a thin blade attached with electrical tape to a rough wooden handle. Without thinking, Mark bent over and picked it up. As he held it in his hands, he looked up.
Standing two feet away with his back turned was Vernon.
Before Mark knew it, the anger flared. Within a moment, it was gone. Within that moment, Vernon lay on the ground, screaming like an animal, bleeding. The next thing Mark knew, he was thrown up against the wall by two guards. One smack to the head with a nightstick, and all was dark.
© Cynthia M. Piromalli
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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