Note: (I didn't break this up into paragraphs because I intended for it to be a continuous read. Meant it to be in the vein of the work by Hubert Selby Jr. Also, I would appreciate any and all comments. Positive and negative comments welcome; let me know if you like it.)
Waiting
by Oscar Lopez Jr.
I did fifteen years. Yeah, fifteen long, miserable
years. Tossing and turning becomes almost rhythmic, like it's all about
of some bigger plan. Like if you toss and turn enough times, in some
secret kind of order you'll become numb to it. All of it. After
awhile you'll find that your body does get used to it, but your mind
doesn't. Your body is locked up, limitations present and staring you in
the face as if the hardest character on the yard, standing you down
while you sweat and cry out internally. It's a constant cerebral fight
for the life or death of your sanity. That persistent drill of the
Warden's voice on the overhead speakers, cursing your existence and
every breath you take, with every breath he takes. Day in and day out
like the ticking of a dismal clock protruding from the chest cavity
where there probably should be a heart, and you come to the realization
that it's all about time. While you do the time of your penance, your
body also counts down till closing time, when it can finally lay up its
tarp, punch its card, and never have to work again. What gave me the
right to hurt another? What gave 12 cocksuckers the right to decide
where I belong? You give the Devil his robes and let him sit upon his
throne but you tell him not to sin. We're all hypocrites and we're all
liars, but at least I won't sit here and pretend to be changed. Fifteen
years I'll never get back, and now my twenty year old daughter calls
another man Father. And now she even has her own child to call her
Mother. I've waited, but truthfully I don't know for what or whom. Fuck
you, you bastards, you can have it all! you've already taken everything
else from me. How will I sleep at night when I no longer hear the metal
clanking, the sink dripping, and my cellmate snoring, but only after an
hour of crying himself to sleep? Will I dream of confinement the way I
now dream of freedom? I've been better taken of here than a sixty-five
year old broad left in a home by the bastard she birthed, raised,
clothed, and worked four jobs to keep in school. It's a vicious circle
in the end, and we're all apart of it in some way or other. Even those
who choose to stay home, watching with some popcorn as it all falls
apart and this little circle proves to be a square. No one wants to pick
a side, but every last one of us, and yeah I'll include myself, will
point a finger in every direction. We'll become like vampires when the
mirror is turned on us, 'cause we can't accept the blame, can we? You're
too perfect in your little bubble to say "Yeah, I fucked up. I'm only
human . . . this is only temporary." I don't want to be human anymore,
or an alien. I just want to be myself. I don't want to be 65 years old,
waiting for my kid to come and take me away to that old folks home to be
buried alive until death in all it's charity picks me over the others.
This ain't no lottery, and I've never considered myself lucky. So, just
as my kid rings the doorbell I'm blowing my brains out 'cause I refuse
to be buried alive ever again. So you sign that piece of paper and let
me go, or don't. I'll stay here growing evermore bitter and finding new
shit to complain about for the next time we meet. I'll be here waiting.
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