© 2022 Phylicia Joannis
Chuck’s head was on fire.
He’d been in agony all night and could barely breathe by the next morning. His nose was decidedly broken, the left side of his face swollen and bruised. The guard wouldn’t allow him to see a medic after chow, so he’d tried sticking his head in a sink full of water to ease the swelling. His head kept banging the faucet, though, setting off waves of pain. After a few minutes of that torture, he’d given up entirely.
“Somebody kill me,” Chuck moaned. His cell mate grunted and shook his head before yelling out in frustration. Apparently, he’d had enough of Chuck’s groanings.
“Yo guard! Yo, somebody come get this dude! He’s been crying all night and I can’t take it, aight? His face looks like a sausage. Somebody come get him, cause I don’t want him keeling over in here!”
“Knock it off.” A new shift guard moved towards the cell and frowned when he saw Chuck’s face. “You do this?” He looked at Chuck’s cell mate.
“Nah, man.” He put his hands up. “He came in here like this last night. I didn’t do nothin to him.”
“Hands.” The guard had Chuck’s cellmate put his hands through the bars to be cuffed, then opened the gate and motioned Chuck forward.
“Let’s go. Off to medical.”
Chuck lifted his head slowly and stood. Dizziness sent him stumbling to his knees, and he vomited. His cellmate let out a yelp and a curse as the guard entered the cell. He radioed another guard to send a mop and stand guard while he escorted Chuck.
Chuck felt a wave of relief as the guard hoisted him to his feet, but the moment was fleeting. Another guard arrived. The same guard from lunch the day before.
“What’s the problem here?” the guard asked.
“Taking this one to medical. Stay at your post until Julius gets here.”
The guard shook his head. “No worries, I’ll take him.”
“You sure? Your shift’s almost over. It could take a while.”
“No problem. I’ll take him.”
The morning guard shrugged and handed Chuck over, making a face as he looked down at the mess on the floor.
The new guard led Chuck away. As they walked down the hall, a growing sense of dread crept in. The guard lifted his radio, adjusted the frequency, and spoke. “On my way to medical, Rod.”
Chuck lifted his head as they turned down an unfamiliar corridor. The guard suddenly stopped and released Chuck, then took two steps back and turned around.
“Why’d we stop?” Chuck stared at the guard’s back, confused. “Is this the way to medical? I don’t remember this route. What do you want me to do?”
The guard said nothing, just kept his back turned. Chuck heard footsteps coming from the opposite direction and turned to look. Another guard walked in their direction. There was something in his hand. Chuck squinted to get a better look, but the swelling in his face had reached his eye.
“Don’t reach for my gun!” his guard shouted suddenly.
Chuck turned in confusion. “Reach for your what? I’m not doing anything.”
The guard shouted again. “Rod, he’s reaching for my gun! He’s reaching for my gun!”
Chuck turned back towards the other guard, who continued forward with more deliberate steps. The object in his hand was clear now. A serrated blade, long enough to do permanent damage.
“Rod, he’s got my gun!”
Understanding smashed into Chuck as the guard reached him, his knife reared back like a spring ready to be unleashed. Chuck closed his eyes.
It was too late to do anything else.
Be First to Comment