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The Sunday Paper: Inside, by Ryan Adam Murray. Part 6 of 6.

The man with the clipboard was dead before the end of lunch. When he keeled over, cheers went up all over the cafeteria. Guys started jumping on the tables and yelling, the kitchen went berserk, the guards had to call in back up to calm the situation down. I glanced up at Officer Patrone. He wasn’t looking at me.

A few days later, Bobby came back. He still had no eyebrows. His arms were pink and soft, having just been peeled. Otherwise he looked pretty good for a guy who had recently been engulfed in flames. He showed up after breakfast. I couldn’t wait for lights out. The suspense was killing me. I wanted to tell him what I had done. I wanted to know what happened to him. I had so many questions, and this time, I was going to get answers.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, baby,” Bobby said, lighting a cigarette and getting ready to do his usual routine with the mattress. “It’s been a rough couple of days. Especially since your friend got whacked.”

“Why is that, man,” I felt like giggling now, but that was Bobby’s department.

“Well, seems to be that he was going to testify against some friend of mine,” Suck. Blow. Suck. Blow. “He cut some kind of deal for protective custody and early release if he would play ball. Deal was supposed to go through the day it happened. It was a federal thing, so of course all hell broke loose,” Suck. Blow. Suck. Blow. “This friend of mine, see, he doesn’t have many friends around here. Just me.”

“Just you, man?”

“Just me. Of course, I was wrapped in gauze and chained to a bed in the infirmary at the time. You’d think that would be enough for these cocksuckers,” Suck. Blow. Suck. Blow. “But still we had to spend three days playing twenty questions before they gave up and hit the road.”

“They wanted your friend bad, man?”

“Real bad,” Bobby giggled. “That guy thought he was safe because they stuck him away here. He knew I was the only one who even heard the man’s name.”

“We gonna keep it that way, right man?”

“Yes indeed,” Bobby confirmed. “We most certainly will.”

I thought about this for a little while. Something was beginning to dawn on me, but I didn’t trust my voice yet. I had a question, but I wasn’t sure quite how to phrase it.

“Tanya says that you’re a sweet guy, but baby, you gotta understand, she’s a working girl,” Bobby said, casually. “She’s got her own way to go, know what I mean?”

“Yeah man,” I said, slightly dazed. “I guess I do.”

“I know, I know, she’s got those freckles. But she’s not the only one, trust me,” Suck. Blow. Suck. Blow. “There’ll be others. Maybe next time though, and this is just me talking, but maybe next time you don’t worry about making her think you’re a hard case.”

“I…” but that was as far as I got.

“I’ve never been in love myself, so I don’t know much about these things, but I’d say you’re pretty lucky that you didn’t get caught this time. Of course, the man paid off a couple of guards to look the other way on your behalf, so they knew you two were tight. You were never a suspect. Not with lil’ ol’ me hangin’ around.”

“I guess you got a point there, man,” I had to admit.

Bobby put out his cigarette. We were both quiet for a while. I thought he had fallen asleep, when suddenly he said, “hey! I got a question for you.”

“What you wanna know, man?”

Bobby leaned over the side of the bunk, his upside down Cheshire grin hanging like a crescent moon in the darkness. “Are you bored?” he asked.

“No man,” I grinned back. “I’m not.”

“Didn’t think so,” Bobby giggled.

Then he rolled over and went to sleep.

I had a lot to think about. There was blood on my hands now. Why didn’t Bobby just pay somebody to stick the guy, like everyone else does in this place? Why get me involved, and involved so deeply? Why take a chance on a plan like that? Just to liven things up a bit? Really?

Then I remembered what Bobby says about questions, and closed my eyes.

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday. For other stories check out the Sunday Paper archive.

To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper:

e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com.

The Sunday Paper: Inside, by Ryan Adam Murray. Part 5 of 6.

I didn’t need to work on my face any more. The murderous scowl that I crafted so carefully when I first got inside now came naturally. People were afraid to look me in the eye. People were afraid to be alone with me. My rage and contempt were naked before everyone. I made no effort to conceal them, especially not from the man with the clipboard. Then again, I was faking it before, so he probably didn’t notice the difference. Bobby would have noticed, but Bobby wasn’t around.

Because everything was going the wrong way, I got my reward. Tanya and I spent another glorious night together. I put aside my feelings of frustration. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I found that I could box up my feelings and set them aside, not because I wanted to, but because I loved her. I really did. And I was afraid that if she saw that side of me, she would never love me back.

When she started to cry, the box opened a crack.

“What’s the matter, girl?” I asked. “Why the tears?”

“It’s my boss,” she moaned. “Fucking asshole. He’s selling me to a place in Las Vegas. He says I have to go, he says I’ve been paid for.” And then she did it. Tanya hit me full in the face with those big brown eyes and said, “I don’t want to go.”

Well… I didn’t want her to go either.

The box opened a little bit wider.

“You can run away,” I said. “I have friends. I can make a call. You can go to them. They’ll keep you safe, I promise.” I didn’t really know what I was talking about. I was frantic. But I was sure I could arrange something. I had to.

“But if he takes their money, they’ll come after me. They all will,” she wailed. “They’re going to transfer it to him tomorrow night! I can’t put your friends in danger like that, I won’t!” She was so adamant about it that my heart melted on the spot. But she had given me an idea.

“What if he doesn’t pick up this transfer?” I asked her. “What then?”

“Oh baby, no!  You can’t,” she wailed.

“I can,” I assured her. “In fact, it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time now.” I could feel it on my face. The box was open now. She looked at me, and I could see that she knew.

“Here,” she whispered. She handed me a little plastic baggie. “He won’t be able to taste it. Just don’t get caught,” the tears welled up in her eyes again. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“They’ll search me when I go back.”

“No,” she told me. “They won’t.”

I was so full of rage, it had been building in me for so long that I didn’t even stop to ask myself what was happening. I had completely lost perspective, and the wall that I had built between myself and the world wasn’t helping. I’m definitely a narcissist. All I could think about was being the hero. Not just to her, but to Bobby too. Shit, to everyone. Everyone had seen that smug motherfucker smiling in the cafeteria. Nobody smiles inside. He should have known better.

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday. Return next Sunday morning for the next section of Inside. For other stories check out the Sunday Paper archive.

To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper:

e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com.

The Sunday Paper: Inside, by Ryan Adam Murray. Part 4 of 6.

Bobby once told me that self-love and self-loathing went hand in hand. When you love yourself, he explained, you expect more from yourself. You want more for yourself. Just hating yourself comes from attachment to your own suffering, he said. The self-loathing of the narcissist was far more complex. It doesn’t come from a feeling of worthlessness, but a sense of incredible value that one can never practically live up to. The night with Tanya made me wonder if I was a narcissist. Let’s review the facts: on the outside, I sold drugs so that people would want to hang around me, invite me to parties, and fuck me. Basically, I was on an ego trip. If I wanted money, I would have taken myself a few levels up when I started to move volume. Get myself away from the street level shit. But the reputation that came with that was what I was getting off on. I suppose, if I had put in the time, I could have gone high up enough to fuck three strippers a night in the condo of my dreams, but that would have taken a hell of a lot more patience and self-discipline than I had.

Tanya was amazing. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, but we really clicked. When I was done, we lay in the trailer and talked for a long time, and when I was ready again, she was game. I thought that was what the man with the clipboard paid her for, but I was only half right. He paid her for the sex, sure, but that understanding, that compassion, that open and honest ability to make me feel like I was the only person in the world she wanted to be with? That didn’t come from the man with the clipboard.

But then, when I got dressed and headed back to the cellblock for breakfast, I was more miserable then ever. That’s why I think I’m a narcissist. I’m pretty sure that night couldn’t have possibly gone better. It wasn’t that I was going back to my cage that bothered me. I don’t know what it was. Somehow, getting everything I wanted wasn’t enough. It was frustrating. I tried to imagine what it would take to make it better, but I couldn’t come up with anything. No wonder I spent so many years chasing high after high. The best wasn’t good enough for me. Where do you go from there?

I glanced around the cafeteria for Bobby, but I didn’t see him. The man with the clipboard wasn’t there either. Asking questions would just make people suspicious, so I ate my eggs and kept my mouth shut. On the way to the gym that afternoon Officer Patrone took me aside and searched me. That wasn’t unusual; we all got the once over from time to time. He didn’t find anything, but when he was done there was a note in my pocket.  “Still alive,” was all it said.

I got to see Tanya again the very next week. It was even more amazing than the first time. There was no mistaking it; I was in love with her. The strange part was, and this I could scarcely believe, it seemed like she was in love with me. She even started to say something about when I got out, but stopped herself and apologized. She said that she didn’t want me to think she was a psycho. We really didn’t know each other that well. I told her it was okay. I didn’t say much else. I didn’t have to. We held each other for a long time and let the possibilities speak for themselves.

Bobby was still in the infirmary. It was a while before I could get the story out of anybody. The man with the clipboard finally filled me in. We had stopped hiding our little chats from the others. Everybody saw me talking to him. Everybody knew that he was behind what happened to Bobby.

Nobody knew the details. The man with the clipboard wouldn’t say much. Bobby’s job was to sweep and mop the classrooms and cafeteria when they were empty. He was usually supervised. For some reason, that day, the guard wandered off. In the meantime, Bobby managed to be doused in gasoline and set on fire. He had burns all over his arms and legs, but he survived, thanks to quick thinking on his part. The prison officials didn’t have a suspect, but when Bobby was sufficiently healed, it was likely that he would wind up in protective custody until more information came to light. The man with the clipboard was very happy about this.

“I won’t be here much longer,” he told me with a sly smile. People don’t smile on the inside. Well, Bobby does, but Bobby’s different. Seeing the man with the clipboard do it, with everyone watching, was blasphemy. “But I do keep my word.” And so, another week later, I was going to get to see Tanya again.

Meanwhile, I was losing my mind. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have Bobby to talk to, it was that asshole’s smug fucking smile. How could this be the plan? I began to believe that the man with the clipboard had pulled a fast one on Bobby. That made me very upset.

I started dreaming again. In some of my dreams, Bobby was coming to kill me. I had failed him, and he wanted revenge. In some of them, Tanya was coming to kill me. She learned that I betrayed my friend, and wanted to punish me. In most of them, I was chasing the man with the clipboard, but it always ended the same way. I’d back him up against the wall and try to punch him in the face, but I couldn’t. Looking at him was like looking at the sun. I couldn’t focus on his face, only his smile. My blows were weak and useless. My arms were like pudding. I tried to shank him, but when I reached for the blade it fell to the floor. I stooped down to grab it, but it was too heavy for me to pick up. Then I would look up and see that hideous, disgusting, smug, little smile looming over me. Mocking me. Mocking Bobby. Mocking my friend.

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday. Return next Sunday morning for the next section of Inside. For other stories check out the Sunday Paper archive.

To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper:

e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com.