All For More (Or Less)

I heard the cages banging last night. There was a threat of prisoners looking to riot, which is nothing more than another day here, alive, and living with the beasts.

In all fairness, I have to admit to the truth. And the truth is I am afraid. The truth is I am afraid of everyone. And I’ve always been afraid.
I was afraid to care.
I’ve been afraid to be the fool or afraid to be hurt and I have always been afraid to be weak or soft and used.

In fact, yes.
I suppose the worst of all things I could become is the weakest in the room. Or worse would be pathetic or helpless.
No one wants this.
No one wants to be reduced to the lowest on the food chain or the last of all choices or the last to be considered.

No one asks to be seen as the humbled one or incapable. And no one wants to be picked last when the world around them decides to divide the room and choose teams.
And me? I never wanted to be “that” person,
I never wanted to be the least desired or the least worthy.
No one asks to be this person.

Not at all.
My biggest fear is that not only would I be regarded as unremarkable or mute, but worse, I was afraid to be otherwise meaningless, like an unremembered soul with no substance.
Yes. I am afraid.
I have always been afraid, which is where my false bravery came from. I had to hide this. I had to use whatever i could to arm myself and be a threat to keep me from being a victim.

I am here in the den of evil things where the belly of the beast churns and simple or weak men are seen as tiny morsels who aren’t enough to satisfy an actual meal.

The devil knows where I am.
And he laughs too.

Here, all of the prison cells are lined with hatred and anger, which, too, at least the writing is clear and on the well.
Nothing is unexpected because hate is expected and so are consequences.

There is no pretense and there is no guess-work when it comes to the outcomes of evil men.
At least, I can say that evilness comes with special certainties that remain constant, —and while force meets force and violence meets violence, the rules of engagement are clear, present and equally enforced.

Perhaps no one is trustworthy but at least no one can betray my trust because the rules are clear in prisons like this —Don’t trust Anyone!

No one can dare their truths when facing the general population, which is where the aggressors are present and the predators look to pick at the meat from the bones, like scavengers who go blind in their feeding frenzies, and the feel nothing. No remorse. No sympathy. No empathy.
Nothing.

No one can show their heart or wear this upon their sleeve.
Not here.
No one can cry or be soft or show the proofs of pain, sorrow, emotion, or vulnerabilities because all of these are opened windows for enemies to invade with their hatred, destruction and hostility.

“Never let them see you sweat.”
“Never show fear.”
“Never show pain!”
Bury your feelings, be mean.
Be wild.
Be ferocious but above all, never be the lowest on the food chain.

Never be the weakest in the pack and if you are, divide and conquer by utilizing every resource, —and in the worst of all fits, regardless of your twisted contortions or excruciating resurrections of hell on earth; remember, this is prison in Purgatory.

Therefore, the only thing that one can do is unleash the beast within, and no matter what, show the worst of all inside your gut.
Show them rage. Show them fury.
Show them a violence that even the heartless would find horrendous and by any means, survive, —even if it means to eat the maggots from the rotted flesh of the dead, —survive by any means because death to the cannibals in places like this is otherwise unthinkable or grotesque.

No matter whether I am weak or strong, capable or otherwise; all one can do in the cage is fight or die or worse, be pulverized and trampled by the uncaring feet of those who step heavy on this ground.

Yes. I am afraid.
Yes. I am weak.
I am not tough and nor have I ever been tough because if I was, then I would have been fine to be me as I was instead of hiding my truths to better suit my friends and foes around me.

Simply because I was capable of awful things or due to the internal coward, which made me violate the anyone, including the undeserving souls who suffered from my hate, —none of this makes me tough.
Heartless at times. Yes.
But to be tough means to feel and to be tough means to disregard outside opinion or the need to please or appease the surrounding natives.

I am afraid. And I’ve always been afraid.
But recent times have opened my eyes to the fact that time is moving and the clock refuses to cease.
This means that I must make moves. This means that I cannot allow myself to fade to my fears.

The guards took out one of our inmates who was schedule to die a worse death than death itself.
Even the Devil discarded him.
And laughed before taking him back to devour him once more.
This is prison.
These are the details of my real fiction.

I was petrified to be that faceless addition to the room. I was afraid to be someone who seemingly and meaninglessly existed, but above all, I would always remain empty.
I was afraid to be faceless, as in sad and voiceless, as in unheard or uncared for; and with no love for the heart or warmth for the hand, or worse, I was afraid that I would be the subject of pointed fingers and remarked as pitiful.
I was always afraid to be the last one to get the joke until one day, I found out the joke was on me.

The worst feeling a strong man could have is weakness. The worst thing to do to a thief is steal from them.
I grew tired of my place here. And I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to deal with the common aggression or systematic violence or to fear the demons, the beasts, or the Devil, himself.

Maybe I am not worthy of redemption.
Maybe I am only worthy to serve my place here in Purgatory.
Or maybe my defense is enough to trick the judges and prove the courts wring about me.

Either way, no one can judge me.
No one can persecute me.
No one can condemn me either.

No one . . .
One day, back when I was young and fed up with the crowd and my usual bullshit friends, I decided to take a walk and enjoy the day by myself.
I was only 15.
I was sick. I had a case of the mild stirs from an early dependance creeping up on me and, plus, there was a world of evidence that weighed on my shoulders.

I spent an entire day, away from everyone, disconnected by every feature known to me at the time, and if I am being honest, —to this day, I can’t remember feeling this free before.

I wish I could see him now, that 15-year-old version of me. I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could say, “don’t be scared, kid,” and I wish I could tell him to walk away.
“Do it now,” to keep your dependency at a minimum and your freedoms at the maximum.

I wish I could convince that kid, “Don’t listen to them,” and I’d try to show him, “trust me, you are more beautiful than you believe.”

I’d say, “I know you’re scared. And so am I.”
I’d say, “But you and I have to break this spell, otherwise, the jailhouse doors will grow too thick and the tunnels we’ll have to dig to escape will be impossible to comprehend.”

I’d say, “I know why you are scared and I know who hurt you.”
“But I am here now, and so long as I live and breathe, no one will ever hurt you like that again.”

I promise . . .

Then I’d open the shade to the windows and let the sunlight in.
Then there’d be light. There’s be no monsters hidden under the bed.
No monsters or skeletons in the closet.

I’d point to the warmth of sunlight in the center of the room.
I’d say to the child who lost himself to an intrusion, “It’s your turn to play now, son.”

No one can hurt you anymore.
All the bullies are gone now.
And the adult hands that felt you in unwanted ways are dead and disappeared.

“We have to get you back to who you are because one day, your girl is going to meet you, and you owe it to her to show what real love and care feels like.”

I know what it means to be hurt and punished.
But her?
She?
Or you?

I’m sorry . . .
I’d stomach my hells on earth, if it meant that you would feel the kingdom of Heaven

Forever~