The shrill ringing of the bell breaks the relative silence, signaling the lunch hour. I wait for the cell door to slide to the side, then step out while my bunkie, a lanky kid in his early twenties, keeps lazing on the upper cot. He got locked up for killing four people in the middle of his college quad, and despite us being cellmates for over three months, he still hasn’t mustered the courage to speak with me. Instead, he simply tries his best to stay out of my way. The day he arrived, a fight broke out in the chow hall, and he witnessed me trying to dig an inmate’s eye out using an empty yogurt container. This seems to have freaked him out.
Or maybe it’s my frequent vocal not-so-friendly chats with the pain in the ass living rent-free inside my head that got it done.
As if.
Fuck off!
