>>CHAPTER SIX::

Aruis Ex

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

x

I duck down so that I can see myself in the small plastic mirror above my sink while I turn the hot water nozzle as far as it can go. There's a large lavender bruise forming along my lower jaw that stands out like a fucking neon sign against my scales. It's sensitive to the touch so I try to tongue at it from the inside to see if it feels the same.

It does.

The water is like ice when I finally run my hand under the faucet. I cup my hands and let a good amount of it build up before splashing it all against me. It spreads across my face and runs down my neck and finally begins to soak into my lavender coveralls, into the tapestry of bumps and abrasions and cuts and gashes and burns and scabs and numbness. After a few weeks it had gotten to the point where I couldn't muster up the will to even bother checking the progress on them all. Unless something really started to shit up my senses I just left it alone.

They never healed all the way, but that was how I wanted it.

Every scar became a checkmark on the wall.

Think of my torso, my legs, my arms, my face as just a giant calendar. Every day has a mark, a story, a legacy.

Inside the mirror my twin reflection traces a large, deep gash that's just begun to heal over. He's gentle because he knows that if he presses too hard the blood will just seep back through. He runs an idle finger over the small crevice that peeks out just over his eyes like a small mountain ridge.

January 12. Mess hall. He walks down between the rows of other inmates until a foot collides with his ankle, he begins to fall, and an elbow in his back guides him so that his forehead makes sweet contact with the corner of the table.

My body is a giant PDA where I keep track of all my important dates.

February 15. Laundry Room. Ethan finds out that his wife has been sleeping around with one of his old friends from the workshop. I have my back to him as I unload a pile of sheets from the dryer. He comes over, tells me what happened and then pulls a broom from the corner and beats me across the back with it until his arms get sore. Then he explains how I'm the reason why this is happening, how what I did has effected him emotionally, spiritually. All this while he plants his foot into my ribs, my face, my arms, legs, groin, ass, whatever's convenient for him at the time. He gives a compelling argument, and then when the end of the week rolls around I'm counseled because I'm not getting enough laundry done.

I can't blame him. I might have done the same thing.

When you're stuck inside, time doesn't stop. I mean, it does in your head, and you figure that when you manage to get out that everything will just go back to what it was. It's what keeps you going, what helps you to pass the time. You remember everything good about your life on the outside because everything that used to get you riled up just doesn't seem that important anymore. Suddenly you realize all of the things you were missing out on and you can' wait to step out of those gates with a fresh suit and tie.

Only it's never like that. Ever.

And maybe that's part of the reason it happens the way it does. People leave, and then a few months later they're back looking worse than before. They can't get a job, all of their would-be friends have distanced themselves, found others to associate with. Their wives, girlfriends, they've become the harlots they were in the first place. Friends, co-workers, acquaintances. All of them become potential partners in the blink of an eye.

I'm here to give them something to vent their frustrations on.

I'm the recipient of every death threat that would have gone to their significant other.

I'm the punching bag that shouts back. The one that begs you to stop. The one that bleeds and breaks and groans underneath your fist, your foot, your elbow, your knee, your whatever.

I'm the counselor's assistant. You tell her what she wants to hear because she's the one who gets you out on parole. Who tells the review board that you're rehabilitated, that you're cured, that you've found religion.

Jesus. Buddha. Mohammed. Whoever.

And then you come to me. I'm the one who hears your real problems. I'm the one who sees you burn with rage, who sees your face riddled with sloppy tears as you drag my face across the asphalt. You tell me about your loves, your hates, your ambitions, your fears, all while you slam your fist into my stomach until I'm vomiting blood. You tell me your sins and I give you your salvation in the form of teeth, skin, blood, bile, unconsciousness.

I am your Christ. Your Messiah.

Your Satan.

I'm the reason why your wife is leaving you. I'm the reason why your kids stopped writing you. I'm the reason you're forced to pay child support. I'm the reason why your family avoids you.

No one else. Just me.

They say that Christ died the most demeaning and humiliating of deaths because it would save us all.

Maybe it's the same with me. Maybe if I die in here like this, one of these days, they'll just let everyone go. The cell doors will open and then they'll never close. Everyone will be free.

Including me.