Broken
When you are sentenced to provincial jail time, you automatically get one third of your sentence knocked off. You serve two thirds of your actual total sentence. The only way that changes is if you get into trouble, and even then, you only usually lose a few days of your “good time” for disciplinary infractions at a time. Your first time or two in disciplinary court they don’t usually take any.
The weird thing about losing good time is that you actually get one third of that off as well which never really made sense to me. If they took five days from you, it was actually only three. Go figure – because I can’t.
My good time was taken away, a few days at a time, until I ended up serving months more than I would have if I had been a ‘good boy’. I got caught with contraband quite often, from dunkers to tattoo gear. You name it, I was caught with it. I would receive cell time or hole time, have good time taken away, but still not learn to just say out of trouble. I also received quite a few charges of “Using abusive language towards a staff member” because I was just too dumb to shut my mouth. Being half strung out on pills much of the time did not help my temper any either, and I would often curse myself moments after a ‘Fuck you’ left my mouth. Sometimes it was as if I just could not stop myself.
‘Dunkers’ were devices inmates put together so that they can heat water when they are locked in their cells at night for coffee or tea. Mine usually consisted of the handles off of a couple of spoons separated with a piece of wood. Each metal handle would have a wire attached to it and you would simply place the end of the ‘dunker’ in your cup of water and plug the other end of the wires into your electrical outlet. It usually heated your water fairly quickly. Problems would only arise if the metal pieces or your wires touched each other. This would often blow a breaker so the whole until was without power until the breaker was turned back on by the guards. Most of the guards knew what was happening, and most would just flip the power back on. Some though, would leave the breaker tripped, enjoying the fact that we were all in our cells without power. You hated to be the one who tripped the breaker during those times.
Having a dunker was especially important to me since I spent so much time locked in my cell. Having hot water passed under the door in a bread bag was not ideal, and some guards would not allow it if they saw it happening. The convenience of a dunker made a bigger difference than anyone who hasn’t done time could ever know.
Of course dunkers were not allowed, and I got caught with them during more than a few shake downs. When I was caught I would be locked in my cell until appearing in kangaroo court to be sentenced to yet more cell time, and loss of good time usually – part of being a regular guest in Mr. Saunders’ court.
One at least a couple of occasions when a guard was doing a routine cell check they would find my dunker and just ignore it. These were the guards who knew that this little thing meant a lot to us after lockup time, and the ones who tended to receive a little more respect from the inmates. I know as we go along I may sound like I am trying to put them all in a negative light but that is not my intention. The men who treated it like a job and not some crusade, who treated the inmates like human beings – there were a fair number of. There were far too many though, who let the uniform go to their heads and walked around the jail on a power trip. Too many of them who went out of their way to make the inmates lives miserable every chance they got. Some grew bitter over time and I think that is a risk of doing that job, being in that environment for years on end. Those were the guards that you hated to see come to work. Those were the guards that I always had trouble with.
“What do you want Veinotte?” Jones snarled at me. I was standing in front of the hatch where we received our medication, at the control room.
“Can I have my medication?”
“No.” he replied.
“Why not?” I asked. I could see he was in dangerous mood. There was fire in his eyes when he looked at me.
“Because I’m not spending the rest of my life passing out pills to assholes like you!” He roared. For one brief moment it registered that he was acting irrational and that I should just walk away. However, that moment was brief. I wanted my medication, and was shocked that he was refusing to give me my prescribed medication at medication time. I did not even think about my reply – it just came out: “You’re the fucking asshole!” I said, looking him in the eye through the control room glass. I was looking straight at him when his expression completely changed, the sneer melted into a smile. He was grinning from ear to ear as he said calmly “You’re going to your cell.”
“Like fuck I am.” I said, walking away as he picked up the telephone. I didn’t like seeing him with that phone. That could only mean that he was calling for more guards. I was pretty sure he was calling the ‘goon squad’ and there was no way that could end well for me.
I saw him speak into the phone, put it down, and then he pressed the button to unlock the unit door. He was coming in himself. He was not waiting for backup. And he was pissed.
I sat on the table staring at the television as he came onto the unit. “Come on Veinotte! In your cell!” he said.
“Nope. I didn’t anything. I ain’t going nowhere.” I replied, continuing to stare at the television, trying to act calm. My heart was hammering in my chest and I felt my body shaking. I was angry – this was unnecessary. I had only wanted my pills. As much as he didn’t like it, it was his job to give them to me. But the anger was overpowered by my sudden, dizzying fear. Have some adrenalin with your adrenalin! Still I could not back down. I had no intention of letting him put me in my cell.
“Yes you are. You are going to your cell. Now Veinotte!” His words went from soft to a roar and I was convinced this guy had lost it. He was getting closer and I ignored him, until he grabbed my arm. “In the fucking cell Veinotte!” He hissed, trying to pull me with him towards my cell. I pulled out of his grasp, no longer one bit angry – now I was just scared.
“Nope. I didn’t do anything man!” I said, backing away from him. He followed me, then grabbed for me. I slipped away, avoiding his grasp, too far in this now to stop. Now it didn’t matter how this had all started – I was refusing a direct order. I was in a losing situation and knew that stopping right now and heading into my cell was the only wise thing for me to do.
But I couldn’t.
I kept backing away from him and he followed. A weird combination of hate and pleasure on his face. He was going to hurt me when he got his hands on me. I had no doubt.
I backed up all the way to the end of the unit and now my back was against the wall. I tried to dash around him, but he caught me and pinned me up against the wall. I tried to punch him, though I think that was more of a reflex action in response to the look on his face than anything else. He easily stopped me and pinned my arms against me. He was in my face now, that crazed grin on his face and I was sure he was about to really hurt me. My fear reached a whole new level, and his breath reeked of booze, whether from that day or the night before I could not tell and did not care. I could not move my arms so I did the only thing I thought I could: I kicked him in the nuts.
His eyes widened for a moment, and then his twisted grin seemed to grow. He mashed me up against the wall harder. I didn’t understand. I knew I had connected. My shin had gone straight up between his legs. Hadn’t it?
With a strength that must have come from my panic, I dropped straight down out of his grasp, and went between his legs, ending up behind him. He turned to follow me, not saying a word, and then I heard the unit door click.
I wasn’t counting as the guards came onto the unit, but was later told that there was thirteen of them. It must have been during shift change for there to be that many responding. I saw the first ones coming in and felt relief. “Ok, Ok, I’m going to my cell!” I said loudly as they streamed in and headed toward me. I did just that – walked into my cell and sat on the bunk waiting to be locked in.
One of the guards slammed the door and must have put too much force behind it. The door popped back at him instead of locking. He tried again, with the same result. Then I heard one of them say “Fuck it, take him to the hole!” and in they came.
I stood up and turned around, trying to offer my hands to the handcuffs. I was grabbed and brought to the floor on my stomach. Cuffs were placed behind my back and It sounded like there were a dozen people jammed into that little cell. My face was rammed into the floor and a boot hit me in the ribs.
“What the fuck are you doing you cocksuckers!” I yelled as I was kicked again. “I didn’t fucking do anything.” After that, although I tried not to, all I did was scream. Boots kept hitting me, in the ribs, legs, shoulder, and I curled up in a ball trying to protect myself with the cuffs making my arms useless to me. “Let me at him!” I heard someone say. Someone else screamed and there was a loud BANG from out in the unit “What are you doing to him! He’s just a kid you bastards!” He was put in his cell and then the rest of the until was locked down. Everyone locked in their cells, out of the way.
A boot hit my shin and the pain was excruciating. I screamed and cried, my face pressed into the floor by a knee or a boot, I couldn’t tell and couldn’t think of anything except the pain. I was kicked in the side of the head but barely felt it – the pain in my leg was overwhelming.
The kicking stopped and I was dragged to my feet but was unable to stand. My leg would not hold my weight. I was carried upright off of the unit my head hanging forward, tears pouring from my eyes and blood flowing from my nose. As we went down the hallway, my feet dragging behind me, I sucked in a mouthful of blood and spit it at one of the guards who were carrying me. There was no retaliation so perhaps I missed. I didn’t bother trying again. I focused on trying to stop crying. My tears were humiliating and I hated myself for them.
Once we arrived at the hole everyone was eerily quiet. The guards barely spoke as they helped me take my clothes off and helped me into the cell. The door was closed and locked – still no one spoke.
I heard talking out at the guard desk around the corner but it was low and I could not pick out what was being said. I laid on the floor feeling utter devastation. Here I was again, back where I said I would never return.
The pain slowly eased a little, my ribs dissipating to a throbbing as long as I laid still. It felt like knives in my chest when I moved though. The leg was worse and I tried not to move it at all. It was purple, black and red and swelled like it had been pumped full of air. I wondered if there was a fracture.
I don’t know if I was there for an hour or three when I heard my name.
“Hey Barry, take this.” I looked up at the door, not used to hearing my first name. There was not an inmate or guard in the jail that had ever called me by my first name as far as I could remember. And now a guard was using it?
He passed my underwear and a blanket through the bars to me. “Thanks man.” I said, meaning it.
“Heard you kicked ol’ Jonesy in the nuts,” the guard continued.
I started to say “Well, I thought I did.” Instead I said “Yeah, and he fucking grinned at me.” That kinda sounded better, I thought. I tried to sit up, wincing and making all kinds of weird noises before I managed it. My right leg I kept straight out in front of me on the floor.
“You always been crazy?” he asked incredulously?
“That’s my theme song man.” I said. “Waylon Jennings.”
He laughed and said “Of all people to kick in the nuts! Jonsey! You crazy little fucker!”
He left after assuring me that day shift in the morning would get a doctor up to see me. I was in that cell for a week when I finally gave up asking to see one. After that first week, I had pretty much given up on everything. By my second week I could hobble around a little on my leg. By the third (or maybe it was the fourth) week I was mentally gone. I just drifted away and didn’t care if I ever came back. I guess that is why they moved me to the new segregation – there were cameras in the cells there so they could keep an eye on me. I also had an actual bed in the new seg, and I think even a mattress. I heard guards whispering that “Veinotte had finally lost it” and I didn’t really disagree with that. My mind was more of a steady hum then the usual racing thoughts. I could stare at the wall and be completely content for hours at a time. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Something though, some voice that I could almost hear, was trying to warn me. I had a strong feeling that if I let go completely there may not be a way to return…
“Coming out for recreation Veinotte?”
“Could you just leave the door open for an hour?”
The cell felt bigger with the door open. When it was open I felt better. If they did leave it open for me (which only a couple of guards would do) I would sometimes cry when they closed it. I would just lay there while it was open, and yet I was devastated when it was locked again.
Perhaps it was because I’d had so many trips to the hole already – maybe hole time catches up to after a while – but this time I knew I was not faring well mentally. I knew it, though lacked the ability or the will to do anything about it. The guards knew it as well, from watching me on camera and from my response (or lack of) when they opened the door to feed me. I was on a line and if I went just a little farther to one side, I would fall away.
Drug Reaction – Pretzilitice <– Previous | Next –> Earning a Nickname: Slash
Inside Out Index
- 1) The Beginning (Kinda)
- 2) Problem Child
- 3) Runaway
- 4) Weed and Paranoia
- 5) Dangerous Memories
- 6) Drug of Choice: Alcohol
- 7) Theft, Mushrooms and More Trouble
- 8) Into the System
- 9) The Group Home and Roy
- 10) Lockup and Blanket Ropes
- 11) Detention Center
- 12) Escapes and Growing Rage
- 13) Riot in Detention
- 14) Her Majesty’s Penitentiary
- 15) Drugs, Blood and Cell Time
- 16) Unit 2
- 17) Pills, Pills and Attitude
- 18) He’s okay, just a little nuts
- 19) Drug Reaction – Pretzelitice