I had a rough weekend. I couldnīt remember being so sore ever, I spent most of my time lying headlong on the bed, alternating between steaming hot anger and deep shame. I went through that whipping over and over again and it smarted worse each time. There was another worry, too. When I got my Thursday paper back someone else had read and commented it. I could tell, because the old fart used a red pencil and always wrote by hand; this fellow used black and wrote the comments on a PC. I had filled five sheets with lies of all kinds, from the least to the worst. The comment read: "Get real. Iīm expecting part 2 on Sunday." My four pages looked like a madmanīs graffitti spree, nearly everything Iīd written was questioned, contradicted or given remarks like "Clever!" or "Really?" I may not be Sherlock _f_u_c_k_ing Holmes, but there sure was fat in the fire, and if it didnīt belong to mr Jackson I was prepared to eat my bloody rubbers raw.
I didnīt get any points this time. No punishment, either. He was feeling me up for a start, and I had to tune in on his wavelength a. s.a. p.
What warmed my heart a bit was that the two screws who took me down that Friday morning paid me some extra attention that weekend. I had the bucket back without asking for it, the rubbers removed and the neckring put on. I had two visits from the nurse, who took care of my poor ass and even dressed it. She asked me if I was to have another whipping soon, and when I told her my case she clicked her tongue and looked a bit worried. I also had my first painkillers since I got there, which made it possible to sleep at least five hours a night. Since I had no points I couldnīt get a new book, so I read The Prophet all over again. It was really good, it contained everything there is to life and made me realize a lot of things I hadnīt even thought of before. Between reading and thinking, I wrote a long list of lies pun intended - and my twelve pages of the weekend. On Sunday evening I handed over thirty-six fullwritten sheets to the warder. I felt quite spooked up about the possibility of getting my three papers back at the same time. If he decided to punish me for the lot, I wasnīt sure Iīd stand the shock. Chief at least let you have it little by little. Mr Jackson was something else.
I woke up around 4 a. m. Monday morning with the chilling insight that I had another appointment with the whip in a couple of hours. Nurse had given me two painkillers on Friday and six on Saturday to last until Sunday, and I still had three left. I was tempted to use them in advance, but decided against it. I got out of bed and walked around the cell, trying to ease the stiffness. My ass still hurt. I didnīt know how bad it was, but I could feel blood crust crackling as I moved. I cried a bit with self pity and then started to prepare myself for what I had coming. I assumed that mr Jackson would be present, me apparently being a project of his at the time, and I also assumed heīd whip me. I had to make up for last time to regain some self respect and I had to be very clear and careful about what I said and did. I went over maybe twenty different scenarios and strategies. It was like playing chess. I am a lousy chess player, or at least I was on the outside, didnīt have enough patience and being too short tempered to avoid the traps that were set for me. My brother in arms, my best mate of all times, Chris, was a chess board Phantom. I avoided playing against him, but I loved watching him kill others. Jenni once threw the board at him and locked herself into the loo. I wished Chris was with me, hell no, that I was where he was. I didnīt know if heīd got the word about me. He wasnīt on my list, because I couldnīt think of any time Iīd wronged him, or the other way around, either.
The hours went by, very slowly. The early morning hours always seem to last longer than the rest of them. I had a nasty ache in my stomach, almost felt like I was to be executed, and I tried to avoid thinking about the rest of the week. The bell rang at 6, as always, and I heard the breakfast trolley being pushed past my door at 7, the wheels squeaking as usual. When you were getting a punishment, you had no breakfast until you were done, and sometimes you had to wait until lunch before you had anything to eat, depending on when you were taken down. It could be any time between 8 and 11. This Monday, I was rounded up at 8.30, and I entered the punishment room at 9.10. And sure as hell mr Jackson was there.
I was stripped, kneeled and bent over the frame with the dressing still on. Nurse removed it after I had been restrained.
"Looks a lot better today", she said, and I knew she was addressing me. "Still, the boy could use another couple of daysī rest from this."
"He will, when heīs improved", mr Jackson said, and she didnīt argue. I had noticed that the screws were very respectful towards mr Jackson, like he was some kind of big shot. Maybe they too were scared of him. There was a lot of grudge between the screws, I could tell from the way they talked and behaved towards one another. They always were extremely polite please, mr Davies and thank you, mr Bell and so on - but I heard all kinds of undertones. Must be a hell of a job. I wouldnīt want it even if I had to live the rest of my life in a hole in the ground.
"All right, Jennings", mr Jackson said. "You ready to be punished?"
He didnīt follow the manual, he had one of his own.
"I am, sir. One, please, sir."
"Since you ask for it so nicely," he answered, and gave it to me. I hated the way he talked. The other screws just whipped you and shut the _f_u_c_k_ up except for the ritual Q:s and A:s, mr Jackson had to rub it into you over and over again. Iīm in charge, you are not. Like I didnīt know.
I had the ten lashes without screaming or crying. I didnīt understand how then and I still donīt. I squirmed and gasped and bit my lip until it bled, but I kept quiet. I was secretely proud of myself when I finally stood on my knees on the floor, tired but not exhausted, in pain but not succumbing to it. I stared intensely at mr Jacksons shoes, thinking burn in hell, you _f_u_c_k_ing sucker.
"Well, Jennings, You did a lot better today", he said. "The Friday show was lousy. Maybe I was too lenient today, was I?"
"No, sir," I said.
"So what grade would you give me as a whipper? Use the A-F scale!"
I started sweating immediately. _f_u_c_k_ing stupid cunning question. This was the chess board again. If I said A, heīd rule me out as a butt kisser, and I might get punished for that. If I said F I was back on the rack before I knew it.
"B+, sir."
"How come not an A? Spill it out, Jennings!"
I hoped he was a bit annoyed with me. Good on him.
"Sir, youīre a tough whipper. But you talk too much, sir." I braced myself, feeling my pulse batter against my eardrums.
Nurse giggled silently.
"At least youīre trying to be honest. Nothing like a honest thief, is there? Well, Iīll do my best to meet with your expectations. Weīll see a lot more of each other the next days. Get up and get dressed."
"Yes sir," I said, and pronouncing the words carefully I added: "THank you, sir."
He didnīt comment on that.
Back in my cell I took one painkiller to celebrate. I spent the rest of the morning lying on my belly, reading some but constantly feeling the soreness of my butt.
I had the papers back at lunch. I was too uptight to read them at once, so I put them on the table while I rounded up my courage. At last I figured I could as well get it over with, since I couldnīt escape from it, anyway.
Just like before, there were scribbling all over the sheets. Lots of questions and additional assignments this time. For instance: I wrote about the first time I took part in a burglary, and how the excitement was far greater that the fear of getting caught. There heīd put: "What were you excited about? DESCRIBE in detail!" Or this: I told about how much I missed the outside world, particularly listening to music and being able to move freely. Right over it he scribbled:"Feeling sorry for yourself again. Give at least ten reasons why you are here and not out on the streets."
I dreaded reading the last pages. On my Friday paper it said: "Too much aggression between the lines. Either you express whatīs buggering you or can it altogether. 10 lashes for beating about the bush, effectuated on Wednesday." My Saturday paper was somewhat milder judged. "Youīll get nowhere by self pity. You have to learn that youīre responsible for your actions and that nobody is to blame but yourself. Since this will take a good deal of time and hard work, you get an initial 5 lashes to remind you, effectuated on Friday." My mouth was dry and I was beginning to get a headache. I put the papers back on the table, not daring to read the last one.
My assignment was to reply to the different comments in all three papers. I knew it would take a lot of caution and calculation, so I set about it at once. By 4 p. m. I had gone through the first two papers and had to read the Sunday epistle. I had written about music. Iīm a great Metallica fan, and I know almost all their lyrics by heart. Iīve been to three concerts and have all their records (well, you know what I mean, nobody has all of them), and a fine collection of fan cans, demos, promos and bootlegs, too, including the 1982 demos, and all stuff theyīve done on MTV and video and _s_h_i_t_. I even have the autographs of nearly all the band members (not Ron McGovney) since the start in 1982, even Cliff Burtonīs, though he was killed in a car crash in 1986 and I was just a toddler then. I bought it in March 2001 from a guy who was short on cash. Bet heīs been regretting it ever since. I got lost in writing and just ravelled on about them and how good their music made me feel, and I even quoted a couple of lines that still give me goose bumps every time I hear them:
So close, no matter how far Couldnīt be much more from the heart Forever trust in who we are And nothing else matters
There were surprisingly few black pot hooks on these pages. A couple of "Really?" and "Big deal!", but no assignments and no nasty pointers. With death in my heart I turned the last page.
"Youīre a fairly intriguing writer when you put your shoulder to it. You also managed to fill six pages without giving way to self pity, sentimental babble or ambiguous puns. Since youīve shown that youīre capable of engaging in other issues beside yourself and your sufferings, you get 30 points. In your Tuesday paper you are to write about how youīve used music and or drugs to reinforce or subdue your feelings. You are also expected to explain why you prefer heavy metal to other music."
I had no idea what ambiguous meant, and Iīm rather good with words since I read a lot and learn from it, too. I figured it was something negative, though. I had to read it all four times before I realized that heīd actually given me 30 points. At first, I felt very relieved and happy about it. Then I started having this uneasy feeling instead. If he had continued punishing me, I could have gone on hating his guts without any qualms. The 30 points _f_u_c_k_ed it all up. He wasnīt evil to the bone, maybe he even was human. Still, he was going to whip my sorry behind first thing tomorrow morning, giving me 20 on Wednesday and 15 on Friday and a tenner in between. He was going to watch me go through my torment, knowing that he was the one who put me up there, probably knowing that I knew by now, inflicting pain and even more pain on me. And I had to write to him every day, no matter how lousy I felt, risking more punishment all the time. It would have been easier to undergo this if he hadnīt _f_u_c_k_ing rewarded me on top of it.