November 2015
< Incarceration. Whoever it was that first devised that word and its meaning, captured the cold isolation that exists inside this institution perfectly. Locked away from the world and loved ones, unable to do anything but wait. Even the most trivial of events, a walk in the park or a pint of beer in a pub garden, now seem so precious to me.
Three weeks have passed since I saw the footage of the woman on the phone, and I can’t get it out of my mind. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Olivia with another man, and her response. She is due to visit in two days' time, and I am dreading it. There is this atmosphere around me, invisible and impenetrable, I can feel it, that sudden silence when I walk into a room.
Apart from on one occasion, when in a moment of distracted weakness, I was briefly allowed in, everyone else is following the code. No one is to approach me or say anything, but deep down I know what is happening in the outside world. >
***
I was in the showers, and the guy next to me was openly masturbating. That act in itself is not unusual in here, over time I’ve got used to seeing it. Before I was imprisoned the thought of witnessing another man openly masturbating would have been shocking, but in here there isn’t any privacy, and inhibitions are quickly forgotten, replaced by pure, basic animal instincts. There is a part of me that would love nothing more than to let my guard down and join them, but something holds me back – an insecurity.
He turned his face away from the white tiled wall for a few brief seconds, just long enough for him to look at me with this blank pre-orgasmic grin.
“I’ve seen her,” he slurred, “I’ve seen your wife and what does for you. I’ve seen her take those black cocks.” He didn’t go into any specifics, in fact, he barely managed to complete the sentence before spraying the back wall with his spunk, but it was enough.
The deal that Olivia had brokered was, I know, done in all good faith to protect me. She didn’t want me to know any of the details of what she was having to do. That was the agreement, but it did nothing for my mental health.
Before I saw that short film, I couldn’t imagine my wife with someone else let alone reacting in the way Amanda did, but now I was no longer sure what to believe. Nothing was normal anymore. The guy in the showers confirmed my darkest fear, that degrading footage of my wife had been leaked out and was circulating from cell to cell.
The men here couldn’t care who she is, and I unfortunately count myself amongst them. It is a quick release and nothing more. But the thought of these men getting off on my wife’s debasement is too much to bear.
***
< It’s not been a good day. One of the inmates was found dead in his cell this morning, and we were all locked down until it was cleaned up. He was was one of Dolan’s male whores, I didn’t know him and until today I didn’t even know his name, but two weeks ago I unintentionally disturbed him in a storeroom, he was bent forward at the waist facing the wall, being callously sodomised. It was the first thing that came into my head when I heard about him, hearing his tortured, pitying whine matched against the anonymous man's brutish grunt.
The day only got worse for me with a visitor, he also only bought me bad news. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m close to breaking point. >
***
The day before Olivia was due to visit, I had a visitor to my cell from another prisoner. I was lying on the bed when there was a tap on the door. I recognised who he was even though I didn’t know him personally, his name was Andrew Garvey.
Andrew kept himself to himself and was rarely seen on the landing. He arrived here before me and had been just as traumatised. He looked uncomfortable as he inched his way into the cell and sat on the one solitary chair in the room, unable to look me in the eye.
“I want you to know this wasn’t my idea,” he said staring down at the cold concrete floor, “but I guess by now you understand how it works. I’m getting out tomorrow morning, so it looks like this is my parting gift of sorts.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out three photographs and handed one to me. It appeared innocuous enough, a picture of my wife sitting at the table in our garden with her finger touching the stem of a wine glass.