Exhale of Death
The medical treatment ward of the Stormbrook prison was dull and yellowed from decades of having been pushed back on the prison’s priority list. The walls were stone and heavily coated in several layers of shiny, lead based paint. They boasted one casement window at the far end of the galley style ward, next to, but not actually inside of the office. Years of death and suffering, anger and violence, sadness and cries for mercy hung heavily in the air, unable to be scrubbed out no matter what brush, what mop, no matter how much ammonia.
That was the other smell, ammonia, nauseating and toxic. It tingled through the hairs inside Derek Messing’s nostrils, rousing him from unconsciousness. His hearing returned to a state of semi-alertness before he was able to open his eyes. He could hear them talking not far from where he lay. What were they saying? He could make out the rhythms of their speech, the separations between each word but not the words themselves. God, this is so frustrating! He knew they were talking about him, insulting him. He began to wonder about what it had been this time. How had he landed himself in the medic ward again so soon?
With considerable effort he tried to calm the adrenaline rush that had accompanied his sudden anger for the medical staff. He could open his eyes now but he did so cautiously, not wanting anyone to notice yet – not before he had full control of his limbs. He wiggled his fingers and pain flooded up from them, through his arms and stabbed violently into his shoulder, which, he now realized, must be dislocated. Pain was beginning to assault every inch of his body; he imagined how the beating must have been spectacular to watch. He felt the constriction in his chest, more than just pain, more like suffocation. How many ribs had been broken this time? Burning pain intensified lower, at his asshole. It was on fire, but wet at the same time.
There was the anger again. To beat a man was one thing, to be seduced by the energy of the moment and join the crowd while they punch, kick and stomp a man nearly to death, Derek could understand that. But to rape a man? And how many of them had joined in? How many faggots bunked in the same ward with him? Fury ripped through his body, through his mind, awakening the memories of the night before. Derek’s breathing quickened, for a moment he thought he might vomit. His eyes darted back and forth as though watching the horrific images on a screen before him. It had taken far too long for him to pass out from the pain – he could remember almost everything now.
He began to tremble as he lifted his head to look at his broken body. His head was as heavy as an anvil dangling from his bruised and swollen neck. The effort was all for nothing, his body was bandaged from his chest down to his toes, there was nothing to see but it didn’t matter, Derek knew what lay beneath those bandages. He remembered how they had attacked him in his own cell, his shock and immediate fear as the implications had settled over him. The only way that they could have all been there, out of their own cells and in his was if a guard had assisted them. He had known in that moment that there would be no rescue, no one to blow the whistle, no one to save his life. And yet here he was, in the medic ward, again. They were toying with him, keeping him alive to beat him again. What kind of system was this that could let this behavior go on inside a government building?
He remembered the hands on him, the shouts, the jeers of excitement electrifying the air. At first, he had even begun to allow himself to be swept up into the energy of the moment with them, but then it had come, the first blow. It had struck him hard in the gut, sucking the air from his lungs and causing flashes of light to explode behind his eyes. The next blow had been a knee smashing into his chin. He had felt as though his head had been nearly ripped from his body but the jaw bone had remained intact. One of the larger men had then knelt down slowly onto Derek’s chest, the pressure making it nearly impossible to breathe. He could feel his eyes beginning to bulge. Anger, fear and helplessness had overwhelmed him as several of the other men had grabbed hold of his arms and had begun to pull. Jesus Christ! They’re pulling me apart, limb by limb! The pain had been secondary to the stomach-churning sensation that the action had caused. Derek had continued to struggle for each tiny breath as he’d heard the pop of his shoulders dislocating. All colour had left his face in that instance and he’d thrown up, immediately beginning to choke on his own vomit. The large man known as Buddy had thrust himself off Derek’s chest and tossed his nearly suffocated victim onto his stomach. Derek had known why. They hadn’t finished with him yet. If they could stop him from choking to death they could have a lot more fun with him before they finally decided to let him die. Derek shifted uncomfortably on the hospital bed, suddenly more aware of the pain in his ass as his mind tortured him with what had happened next.
They had ripped his clothes from him so quickly that he’d had to question if he’d been wearing any in the first place. His dislocated arms had been useless, he’d been defenseless. They had kicked him and jabbed him with sharp objects. He couldn’t see what they’d been but he’d imagined that they were likely utensils stolen from the cafeteria. He had felt blood dripping from the fresh wounds, smelled iron in the air. For a split second that familiar smell had excited him. Then he’d felt the large hand of one man wind into a fist in the sweat drenched hair on the back of his head just before the unimaginable pain of rape as the man had bored into him. He’d felt like he was being torn in half, the pain was like nothing he’d ever felt before and it had sparked a fury in him that was as likely to suffocate him as the pressure on his back. Finally, he’d wailed with the excruciating torment and the jeers in the crowd had grown louder. The animal on his back didn’t finish, at least Derek was pretty sure he hadn’t, but it didn’t matter, the next in line took his place and the pain had begun again, stabbing and violent. Never before had Derek wanted to die but he wanted it now, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. How many of them had savagely beat him and violated him after that, Derek wasn’t sure. He remembered being turned again to lie on his back and staring up wild eyed at the circle of crazed men around him. He remembered the cold concrete under his ass and how it was too little too late in the way of physical comfort. Then he remembered the sole of a large boot as it had come down to meet his face. The action had seemed slow to Derek as he’d listened to the sound of his nose snapping and his teeth crunching like rock candy under the weight of the prison guard’s boot. Finally, mercifully, he had lost consciousness.
Derek was sweating profusely and shaking like a trapped animal as the doctor approached, expressionless, emotionless. He looked at Derek for a long time before he spoke.
“Well Messing, they really gave it to you this time, didn’t they? You don’t have to answer that. I know you don’t have a whole hell of a lot left to speak with. Guess they took you from every angle. Must have been quite painful,” The doctor was still expressionless, factual, if not professional. “You know Messing, it’s the fourth time you’ve landed your ass in here in the past two months. Looks like the other boys don’t want you here. Can’t say I blame them but the thing is, we don’t want you down here either. So, what to do?”
Derek’s eyes were wide and blood shot. This doctor, he was more terrifying than any of the men who had attacked him. Something in his eyes, no, nothing in his eyes. He looked empty inside, utterly devoid of emotion. Derek knew the look, he’d used it himself every time he’d committed a crime, every time a victim had struggled in vain to free themselves he’d looked at them that way. Every time they’d cried out for help to no one, every time they’d begged for their lives, screamed in pain, sobbed in defeat, he’d looked at them with that same soulless, empty gaze.
He watched the doctor slowly take a syringe out of his right pocket and hold it with an incredibly steady hand in front of the intravenous line leading to the vein in Derek’s arm. He paused and Derek didn’t have to question why. He knew the doctor was disappointed that it would all be over in a moment.
The doctor watched his patient shaking violently with fear and pain, heard him moaning pleadingly through the broken remnants of his mouth. He looked at this pathetic broken man on the gurney and considered what a waste of medicine and food it had been just to keep him alive for as long as they had. His eyes traveled over the gauze bandages that he had wrapped around the inmate hours earlier to cover the evidence of the horrific beating – his nurses certainly didn’t need to look at it. His eyes came back up to rest, staring at what was left of Derek Messing’s face: the broken nose, the shattered jaw, the swollen, bloody holes that had once held teeth, the blood that stained the rims of both eyes now frantic and terrified, the blood streaked forehead with the word BITCH carved like tasteless graffiti from one side to the other. That one word could not begin to describe this evil piece of murdering filth. He looked again at the syringe in his hand and stabbed the delicate tip into the clear plastic line.
“This is nicotine. It’s quite a large dose. In a moment you’re going to go into cardiac arrest, and then you’ll die.”
Derek watched the doctor push in the plunger of the syringe slowly and he felt the first pain in his heart before the doctor was through. The second wave of pain was blinding and his body convulsed and jerked upward. He couldn’t breathe, he felt as though a bomb had exploded inside his chest and the aftershock rippled through his entire shattered body. And then death came and it was as easy as a long exhale of relief, a sigh at the end of an argument. In his final thoughts he wondered why, if death was this easy, why they had all screamed the way they had.
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