1917

July 8, 1918

Visiting Abel in Fallstaff Prison was easily one of the worst mistakes of my life. The stark, oppressive atmosphere of the prison, combined with Abel’s unpredictable nature, made the experience something I couldn’t shake from my mind. The guards, the cold, the smell of sterile concrete—it all felt suffocating. But it wasn’t just the environment that made it so difficult. It was the conversation, the way Abel spoke, the harsh truths he shared about the world and about himself.

  I thought I could handle it, that I was strong enough to face him and the dark reality of his situation, but I wasn’t prepared for the emotional toll. Seeing him behind those bars, a man who had once been a part of my life in a much different context, shattered something inside me. I left feeling more broken than I had ever felt before, the weight of his choices hanging over me like a dark cloud.

  In hindsight, I realized it wasn’t just Abel’s words that shook me; it was the reminder of how far removed I had become from the person I used to be—and how far I was willing to go to try to save someone else, even when I knew I couldn’t.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, his voice slurred and ragged, clearly intoxicated out of his mind. Where he got the booze from was anyone’s guess. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming, hanging thick in the air as I stood there, unsure of how to respond.

  “How did you…?” I trailed off, my mind struggling to make sense of the situation.

  “Don’t worry about it, Jeremiah,” he said, tone firm but shadowed by something darker. Then he suddenly reached out, grabbing my hand with a grip that nearly crushed it. His strength, despite his obvious state of intoxication, was unsettling.

  The pressure of his hand startled me. His fingers clamped around mine like iron. I winced but didn’t pull away, as if he were trying to force a message into me through sheer physical force—a message I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand.

  “I see you got engravings on your flesh,” I said, noticing the black sun tattoo inked into his pale skin.

  “Ah, yes! You like it?” he asked, stumbling as his words slurred together. I reached out instinctively to steady him.

  “Sure,” I replied, sarcasm dripping.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, not catching it.

  He tapped his bald head. “How about my haircut?”

  “You have no hair…?”

  “Precisely! It was part of my old identity, but not anymore,” he slurred.

  Before I could respond, he suddenly perked up. “Would you like to watch a movie with me?”

  “Umm, okay…” I said, unsure why I agreed.

  “This prison has a movie theater.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “Yes, dumbass. Now follow me!”

  He led me past the cafeteria—its smell somehow both greasy and bland—before we arrived at the theater.

  “What’s playing right now?” I asked.

  “Birth of a Nation is playing. Come, sit with me.”

  I froze. That film—infamous for its racist p********a—felt like the worst possible thing to view in a prison. But arguing with Abel felt dangerous, so I sat down.

  When the lynching scenes appeared on screen, I shut my eyes. Abel didn’t. He screamed with vile enthusiasm:

“Die, n****r, die!”

  The hatred in his voice made me sick. Each time I tried to leave, he barked, “Sit your a*s down and enjoy the film!” Those two hours felt like a lifetime.

  When it ended, I thanked God. It was the worst film I had ever seen, and knowing Woodrow Wilson had endorsed it only deepened my disgust.

  “I really ought to get going, Abe,” I said, shaking.

  “Oh, come on! Stay a bit more, won’t you?” His voice was clearer now—yet somehow crueler.

  My frustration finally erupted. “Abel, one day you’re going to regret being this hateful—I can bank on it!”

  He shot back, “Yeah, well one day you’re going to hate worshiping your false God. Heavenly Father? More like Heavenly Bother.”

  The venom in his voice struck like a slap. I could barely breathe from the anger burning in my chest.

  To stop myself from doing something unforgivable, I left. I ran—ran until the prison was far behind me, ran until the cold air burned my lungs.

  When I got home, I collapsed into tears.

  “Jeremy, what is wrong?” my mother asked, gently squeezing my hand.

  “Abel hasn’t changed one bit. He’s… he’s fond of the KKK now,” I choked out.

  “He’s what?!” she screamed, her voice sharp with shock.

  “Yup. He calls Black people the n-word. He’s just… terrible.”

  I lay on the couch, drained, unable to escape any of it.

  Later, I prayed—for Carson, for my father, for Michael, for my cousins, and for strength. And I prayed for the war to end.

  And, somehow, in November… it did.

  The Armistice of November 11, 1918 finally brought the nightmare to a close. The world could begin to rebuild, though none of us would ever be the same again.