Well old friend, it's been two long years in here, day after day, same boring views from the dismal so-called "window", the same smell of blood, sweat and economically flexible food which also tastes like unwashed vegetables.
If there's anything in here that actually changes, it's the inmates. The slight change in expression from stoic to hopeful each time they learn someone has smuggled in cigarettes; the way each new guy becomes their latest whipping boy for taunts and insults when the old one is quickly replaced with the newcomer.
But what I found the most interesting, probably the highlight of my entire time spent in prison, was when Christine Collins marched through those doors. Some of the guys had been locked up for an excess of ten years, so they had no idea how to act in the presence of a woman; some froze, some stared and others went straight in for the timeless wolf whistle.
When I was told I had a visitor, I actually couldn't move for a minute, or maybe even two; completely stunned. I never really expected her to come; it was more of a way to satisfy my own guilty conscience, rather than to provide her with the information she so desperately wanted and needed.
It's been over five years since I abducted her son. I genuinely feel bad that I didn't give her the information she needed. But truthfully, I have no idea what happened after those boys somehow escaped my chicken coop.
But why should I give her something I never received? I could've lied, told her that I cut her boy up with an axe, just like all the other youngsters I killed. I could've described the blood spraying on the ground, my face and my clothes. I could have imitated how he begged me to stop; his offerings to do everything and anything if I just let him live. But that would've been a bigger lie than my horrifyingly lame excuse of "I can't tell you".
Honestly, I never expected her to come. I assumed she'd given up years ago. But I was wrong; she's still fighting for that boy of hers despite the minimal amount of hope surrounding him and the events which transpired. I wish someone had fought that hard for me.
When I was eight years old, I had a brother who was five years younger than me; he'd just turned three the week before. His name was Benjamin, but everyone called him Ben.
Our family was going through a pretty tough time; my father had just lost his job for the local mining company because there wasn't enough profit being generated and they couldn't afford to keep him on any longer. My father's job was his entire life; to have that taken away from him just completely crushed him. He used to sit me down and say "Son, a man with no job is a man with no life and no passion."
My father was also a man of alcohol; beer, rum, whiskey, you name it, he drank it. Naturally, after getting the sack, he turned to the one thing that made him feel better; the bottle. Instead of going to work, he'd go to the local bar; drink himself into oblivion and stumble home, acquiring numerous injuries from mishaps on the way.
Anything and everything would set him off; the meat slightly overcooked, the wrong light turned on, my mother's perfume. He'd begin expressing his displeasure through the usual complaints and slurred anger, generally escalating to expertly thrown punches towards my mother; expertly in the sense of remarkable for a man in such an inebriated condition. In the morning he'd see the damage he caused and he'd sob, cry, and wail for forgiveness, and he would swear never to do it again. Unfortunately, this became a cycle and went on for two years until he returned home one night to find a puddle of water on the floor. It made him so mad, he just kept hitting and hitting my mother until she fell back and cracked her head open on the bench, blood pouring onto the floor. Ben tried to get him to stop hurting my mother, but in turn, my father grabbed him by the neck, held him there until he turned blue and became a limp pile of limbs on the kitchen floor. I knew I'd be next, and my fight reflex won over my flight. Running purely on instinct, I grabbed the two sharpest knives I knew that we possessed, one carving and one butcher, and stabbed one into his back and the other into his neck. I watched his lifeless body join the others on the floor, another crimson red river joining the others. I checked for a pulse or any signs of life on my mother and brother. They were already gone.
I made the impulsive decision to run. Grabbing the only essentials, I ran for hours. I caught a train for hours and eventually ended up in Los Angeles. I was taken in by foster families, but the temporary homes never worked out for me. This went on until I was eighteen and left the system.
One day, I was driving home from work, and saw a young boy, wandering the streets alone. Somehow, I felt a connection with him, like he was me twelve years earlier. Somehow, I convinced him that his parents had asked me to go look for him, and stupidly, he believed me. No questions asked, I took him back to my lonely house and shut him in the chicken coop until I could work out what to do next. I honestly didn't mean to kill him, but part of me felt he'd live a better life if he didn't live at all. Once his parents found him, he'd be doomed. Subjected to a life of pain and misery, just like I was. I grabbed my axe and chopped until the movement and the screaming subsided. I didn't dare watch what I was causing to the poor boy.
This became a habit for me. I saved another twenty boys; it would have been twenty-three had Walter and those other two not escaped.
Christine may not understand why I can't tell her about her son, but I do. A part of me wants to tell her, but what use is "I actually have no idea" anyway? Even if I do tell her, she'll be on the same path as if I didn't. If Walter is out there, she'll find him, just like my mother would have found me had I ever gone missing. Even though it may seem like I don't think much of Christine, especially after everything I've done to her, I actually respect and admire her a great deal. I've thought of her every day that I've spent in here, and she'll be the last thing I think of in this lifetime.