October, 1993
His heart is thumping away as though his footsteps are echoing inside his chest, reverberating in his ribcage, chocking him with anxiety. His hand in his pocket is sweaty, though the fingers clutching the pipe pressed along his leg are as cold as the pipe itself. Like a rod made of ice. And that cold is seeping into his body, hindering his moves. For whatever crazy reason – or none, whatsoever – he recalls the look he threw at The Scumbag as he passed him by, shower block bound, and it sickens him in the pit of his stomach. It was a humiliating necessity, but it's eating him all the same.
(Yer mah lil' whore, kiddo)
He doesn't want to think about it now. Not now. Perhaps not ever, if luck is on his side tonight. If it's not, The Scumbag better kill him.
Though he knows The Scumbag won't. He'll do worse. Much worse.
(Naw shut up an' take it. Or don', 'cause ye know I love yer moanin')
It doesn't seem it could go any worse, but deep in the dark of his very soul, he knows Ed Crowder will go out of his way to keep finding new doors in hell to drown him in their sick horrors.
(makes me wanna do thangs to ye)
His heart clenches at the thought, and the step falters, almost dropping him on the cement floor in his hurry. The hurry of an animal surrounded by hounds smelling its blood. He imagines the pipe clanging against the floor should he fall, alarming every last one of the law-entitled sadistic bastards in the block to new good reasons to beat him to a pulp. Or how The Scumbag catches up and realizes—
He hastens his step enough to stay ahead and not tumble down. It feels the pipe would slip out of his grip – he can't feel the tips of his fingers holding it for dear life, he clutches so hard. Finally, there's the turn. It's dark in here. Dark and cold and smells of mold. Like it would smell in hell, he reflects, slipping into the cold, damp darkness. The faint grey silhouettes of basins are barely visible in poor light. He gropes for the tap; water flushes against the bowl. He quickly splashes a handful into his face, sobering up. It smells of copper. Like blood. He turns the tap off not to miss any sounds.
With shaking hands, he pulls the pipe out of his pants leg, tightens his hand on it, holding it down like a sword. It better be sharp for him. It better be quick.
Distant echo of footfalls, hasty step. It gets closer.
Trepidation tightens his chest, messing with his breathing. It's like the dying moment as people like to tell about it: it gets darker around, the sight narrows down to a corridor, and your life flashes in front of your eyes. There's not an awful lot to flash there for him, but the lion's share of it is so far gone it scares him. The only bright and saturated pictures he gets are The Hell. The Bloody Ham. Pain and humiliation no one can endure for long. He doesn't even remember now how long it's been… Like years. Decades. A lifetime. The Scumbag already killed him, he merely returns the favor. Eye for an eye and all that. He wishes he could slam this pipe into that bitch right up to the throat and keep ramming unti—
The Scumbag's breath loudly leaves his mouth. Puffing like a wild boar in heat, approaching. Now it's okay to slow down the pace: the rabbit is cornered. Nowhere to go.
His fingers are in agony, so tight around the basin's rim they could snap, but he holds on. So The Scumbag can't see the pipe in his other hand, and partially he needs a support. His knees wobble with knowledge of what happens next. Of The Scumbag's putrid odor of old sweat and nastiest of sins. Of big grabby hands ever with dirt under ugly nails.
"There, kiddo." The Scumbag's voice raspy with anticipation. "Time fo' mah high an' yer dry." The scumbag's chortles, rips his pants down. The scumbag's nails scrape his skin.
Bile surging to his throat, blood flushing in his ears, it seems the room has lost its sounds. He feels his heart trying to break free from the ribcage, but can't hear anything. As if a cannon went off next to him, and now his ears are full of cotton. The heat of panic and rage alike shoots through his frail body, whirling him around, his arm making an arc of a swing. In the dimness of the shower block, he sees The Scumbag's eyes widen as he tries to recoil. It's as if his bulk of a figure is moving under water as thick as tar. Momentarily, he feels a grimace straining his face. It almost hurts. He must be snarling like a rabid beast, and he could be screaming, too, only he can't hear a thing.
And then – a crack. Like hitting a log with an axe. Loud and right inside his own skull. It still vibrates there while The Scumbag staggers, almost turning around like a ballerina going for a jump, and crushes down on the floor like a slaughtered bull. The Scumbag's leg and arm jerk, making soft tads.
He eyeballs that hulk sprawled before him, drawing shallow breaths. For a while, it's just that. Nothingness and keeping on breathing.
He becomes aware of how badly his hand hurts clutching the damn pipe. Or no, the holy pipe. The sword of liberation. Shivering like someone freshly fished from under broken ice of a pond, he pushes out a long exhale, make a conscious effort to loosen his agonizingly painful grip on the pipe. It occurs to him he hardly ever felt a satisfaction like that in his life. It feels unreal and solid at the same time. It fills his lower belly with lead and his head with drowsiness of intoxication. He wants to spit on The Scumbag's body, but his mouth is too dry. 'Mah high an' yer dry'.
"Ye finally got me hard, Eddie. Ye'd like that, wouldncha."
Kai shuddered, panting, his head woozy, his stomach in knots. Reality was making its way back into his head with heavy pulses. The light he left on his bedstand shone bright red against his shut eyelids. He squinted, blinking the sand of sleep away, strangely unable to quite awaken. It was still holding him, the smell of mold and the faint odor of shit.
He crapped himself. He crapped himself when I clubbed him.
Scowling, he sat up, and winced when a book slipped off his chest and onto his hard-on. It was turned cover-up. He put it next to other few crowding his bed while he had been researching for the Law class thesis next week. 'Clyde Barrow's time in Eastham', the bold title said. He stared at the black-and-white picture of Eastham Prison Farm on the open page, waiting for his emotions to settle.
It was so damn real.
Sweeping a slow gaze over the pages and dates, he calculated his age at the time. Twenty-two. Ironic.
A faint smile on his mouth, Kai lowered back down on the pillows and switched the light off, staring into the darkness with eyes wide open and awake. The movie of the dream still running on his inner screen. Those memories felt strangely cozy. They felt like home.
Gotta find me a Bonnie, then, he mused, closing his eyes to surrender to sleep once more. A reckless soul like mine to light up my path of riot…
Afterword: If anyone of you, dear readers, is struggling to make sense of it up to this point, it might be a good idea to check Clyde Barrow's time at Eastham Prison Farm, specifically in October of 1931, as well as the character named Ed Crowder.
Thank you all kindly for reading and reviewing. It always means the world to be worthy of your time.