by Backwoods
Seven Years
Tales from the Backwoods, Story #1
A Short Story
Written by Backwoods
Copyright 2013 Backwoods
All Rights Reserved
Part One
Seven years, seven fuckin years, he thought. Wonder how many more the prick would give me if I jumped over that mountain of a desk and whapped him with his silly wooden hammer. Fuckin’ prick. The judge smacked his gavel down with a thud and a large quiet black man came over and placed chains on his hands and feet.
“You woulda done the same if it was your little girl!” he hollered out to the judge. The large man’s hand tightened like a vice on his shoulder as he led him around the bench and through the doorway.
Seven fuckin years. Shit, I didn’t mean to kill the son of a bitch, even though he deserved it. The anger brewed inside him as he returned to the cold metal box where he had recently, and not willingly, taken up residence. He shook his head as he looked down at the stainless steel toilet, taking a drink from the water fountain atop it. Seven fuckin’ years, he thought again, as he shook a few toenails and pubic hairs from the thin rubber mattress and lay down.
He spent the next week pacing back and forth in the six-foot by eight-foot box. After a week had passed, the guards returned his shackles, stuck him on a bus, and sent him halfway across the state to a freakishly large prison. He stepped off the bus, using care not to trip as the chains binding his ankles limited his stride. He looked in awe as the faint grey walls climbed high into the sky. The old gothic construction made it easily the most intimidating structure he had ever seen. Shivers tickled deep through his spine with the realization that it would be here, in this huge, scary fortress, where he would remain for the next seven years.
He was a big man, not nearly as large as the man in the courtroom was, but big nonetheless. His tall frame supported his wide shoulders, atop which sat his shiny baldhead and hard-chiseled chin. He was a tough guy, having great pride in his brute demeanor. He did however, have to fight back tears as the guards led him through the maze of corridors with cells stacked six high up one side. The taunts and shouts of various inmates filled the air as the guard escorted him to the cold block cell that he would soon call his own.
Don’t fuckin’ tear up, dumb ass, he thought to himself as the iron-barred door slammed shut behind him. Seven years is too long for them to think you’re a fuckin’ pussy, he considered as the tears continued to well up in his eyes. Don’t be a pussy, Dave. They’ll make ya their bitch.
He was no bitch, nor had he ever been. He pledged he would fight, and die, well before he would submit to that roll, confident in his ability to hold his own in a fight. He had after all beaten the hell out of the three men taunting his daughter when she was attacked. He then killed the man that had. He likely would not have been charged, let alone been found guilty of the crime had he been able to stop the rage that flowed through him. He did not stop however; instead, he continuously pounded his fists into the man’s face. If that damned cop had not pulled me off, I’d still be hitting the little bastard, he thought, recalling the event.
Voluntary manslaughter, he thought. What the hell does that even mean, voluntary? I didn’t volunteer for this. Seven fuckin’ years in this God forsaken shithole. The thoughts filled his mind as he studied the cell. It was the same size as the last one, he noticed, as he paced back and forth in three step intervals. A hundred push-ups, a thousand sit-ups, four hours and one dump later, he drifted to sleep.
He woke to a bitter chill. The cell had been cold when he arrived, but the frigid air seemed peculiarly intense. The dimly lit corridor slightly revealed the steam from his breath as he lay on the hard steel bed. He rolled over to his side and studied the faint outline of the few objects within the near empty cell.
He studied the small table mounted to the wall and the small bench mounted below it. His eyes then moved across the wall to the mesh of iron bars that kept him from his freedom. After a moment, he scanned back across the table to the small toilet in the corner. He squeezed the sleep from his eyes with a few strenuous blinks and looked again. His second glance nearly paralyzed him with fear as the frigid air sunk deep into him. Holy fuck, is there someone sitting there? He asked himself as he lay motionless, studying the commode. After several long moments, he wiped his eyes and returned his focus to the figure in the corner. This fuckin place has you creeped out, Dave, he thought. God damn, there ain’t nobody here but you. Won’t be for seven years. You’re fuckin’ losing your damned mind.
He watched for a few more minutes, several times thinking he saw a slight flicker of motion. I’m looking at a shitter waiting for a movement, he thought, causing himself to laugh slightly. Yea, this fuckin’ place is driving me crazy. He finally abandoned his delusions and closed his eyes, longing to return to sleep, and to wake again only after seven years had passed. The sleep was slow to return as he continued to watch silently. He was nearly to sleep when a shadow flickered across the wall followed by the flush of his toilet. His screams filled the dimly lit cell, echoing across the balcony walkway and radiating down the vast corridors of the eerie old prison.
