It is six in the evening, precisely, when Damian brings me my dinner. The other inmates have either already left to go to the 'dining hall', as it is referred to by the guards, or more commonly known as the muck house, or they are on their way there. My cellmate is leaving as Damian walks by, stopping at our cell. He waits until the Columbian is a few feet away, before unlocking the door, and entering the cell himself. Most guards, in fact ninety-nine percent of all guards, would have slid it through the slot in the wall, but not Damian. He comes in, sits down on the cot beside me, handing me the tray. Curiously, my 'cellie' pauses for a moment, watching Damian, before turning on his heel, down the hallway.
"How you doin' man?" Damian asks as I hungrily devour the plate in front of me. I appreciate his presence, and look at him as I answer.
"Been better. Been a hell of a lot better." I answer truthfully, the stale bread creating a nasty taste in my mouth.
"You'll get through this, Tony. I seen tons of guys come in here, and first they don' cope at all, man, but they all got through it. They all got out." He says, patting my shoulder and trying to be comforting. I decide to open up to him; he is the only person who has a fairly clear idea of what goes on Inside, and who'll listen.
"I got a wife on the outside, Damian. She's not gonna wait twenty years for me. A month ago, I was so happy, we were so happy. I had my whole life ahead of me. Now, I have nothing. Nothing." I continue to eat as I speak, my hunger overriding my need to speak openly.
"She'll wait for you, man. I seen her. She loves you like⦠somethin' else."
"I don't know that I want her to spend her whole life hung up on a guy who can't give her what she wants, Damian. She deserves better. Why do you care so much, about me?" I ask, wondering what his motives were. Everyone has a motive. Nothing is free.
Damian shrugs. "I know why you's here, man. I read your write-up. It ain't fair, I'll tell you that much. You deserve a freaking medal, not a twenty-year term. It ain't fair."
"It isn't, is it?" I repeat, thinking for myself of the unjustness of the situation. I did what I thought was right in an impossible situation. Isn't that what we should all be doing, what we think is right?
"No, it ain't. You'll be fine, though, man. I got faith in you," Damian decides finally, giving me a last, firm, pat on the shoulder. I nod, handing him the now-empty tray and shaking his hand.
"Thank-you, Damian." For the first time here, I actually trust someone. I care for him, like a brother, if only because he is my only ally. And he trusts me, and it is that, if anything, that lifts my spirits.
