When I decided to kill myself I wasn’t certain where to begin. I'd never considered taking my life. On the other hand, who imagines he'll end up in prison? Do you that they used to punish folks who killed themselves, as if dead bodies can be reproved? Before modernity, many believed that if took your life you’d be condemned to the seventh circle of Hell, subjected to agony for all eternity, eaten and abused by the Harpies. A suicide was punished, his corpse desecrated, family wailing and cursing, creeping out at night for a lonely burial at the nearest crossroad, praying that horse traffic would keep his body down; or they'd drag his rotting remains through the streets, his ashen face bouncing off the filthy cobblestones and hang him on a homemade gallows even though he was already dead; or they’d stuff him into a barrel, broken legs sticking out, beginning to smell and stiffening-up, and dump him in the North Sea when the tide was going out so his corpse would never find rest.
Attitudes are changing. Slowly. While some abhor the thought of self-destruction, others believe that ending one's life represents a sensible form of personal management and suicide isn’t a lone gesture, but more a final, desperate decision following a continuum of conscious behaviors. But not Inside. Suicides are considered to be failures in prison, a breakdown in correctional management or a mental health programming error.
I had a number of choices: jump from the third-tier catwalk, insult a shot caller, fake a homicide on the yard and get gunned down by the hack in the tower, swallow broken glass, or self-infect with some punk who carried HIV. I decided to keep it simple. I choose the noose; wait for Third Watch, when the screws walk the tier every two or three hours, strip to my shorts, tie my jumpsuit to the bunk stand and then my neck, and lean forward. But right off the bat I made it complicated. It seemed important to leave a note. But to whom? What I'd done to that girl was unforgivable. My ex-wife, my brothers, former friends, wanted nothing to do with me. And what about tone? Timber and spirit in a suicide note seemed absolutely critical, more important than the substance of one’s final discourse. Should it end happy, or should I get back at everyone who’s wronged me, including my lazy-fuck, incompetent lawyer? Someone once told me that the handwriting of a suicide does not resemble his or her normal writing. I didn’t give it a second thought, back then, but now it really upset me. I resolved to write my letter far in advance of the actual deed, before any last minute agitation set in; went so far as to compose a draft which consisted of those disappointing platitudes found in wedding invitations and birthday cards, a parody of sorts, in no way indicative of the trauma and importance I attached to ending my existence.
I continued to fret about it throughout Summer and into the Fall; and began the third year of a twenty-five-year sentence worrying about the brevity or expansiveness of the missive I’d leave, but the first week in December the Watch Commander activated a series of random cell moves, a standard SHU security precaution, and this wild kid named McGregor ended-up in the cell next to me. I’d heard of him, we ll know of him, how he arrived a teen-ager carrying a homicide rap, how after he cleared the Reception Center a gang of Crips caught him alone in an empty rotunda and raped him. McGregor refused to cooperate with the subsequent investigation. Instead, taking his time, his own sweet time, he stalked down and killed or maimed every man who’d attacked him. Convicted again for murder, locked in a strip-cell and force fed psychotropic, nothing stopped him. He continued to run amok, seeming to act entirely on impulse, no predicting what he’d do next. He even looked the part, tough fucker with a shaved head, huge arms and barrel chest, notorious among the worst of the worst, a hoodlum who refused to join a gang, out-of-control in the harshest confinement possible.
But a good neighbor. The inmate workers were scared shitless, they served him two trays of meals and soon I received double portions, as well as cigarettes and harsh but effective pruno. He liked to talk, from lights-out until morning. Long hours - our ears pressed against a concrete wall. Fine with me, I couldn’t sleep anyway, but the man scared me and to my lasting regret I didn't let my guard down. I listened and responded, but avoided friendship.
First time I felt a dick up my ass, he told me, I was ten. His mother was a crack whore, he explained, father unknown, and when desperate for drugs she’d pimp out her son. If I fought back, he told me in a flat, emotionless voice that hid a furious rage, she forced me into a sleeping bag and hang it from the ceiling. Curled in a ball, coated with piss and shit, I’d be like that for days.
Winter slipped past and despite being buried alive, we sensed the arrival of Spring. The longer the days, the more he grew agitated. Hate this time of year! He stopped talking to me, and to staff, but played it clever: he never refused a shower or outdoor rec, and thereby avoided a mental health review.
She’s found the Lord, he whispered one evening, my fucking mother wants forgiveness.
What are talking about?
A letter, he replied. Want’s a relationship. And I’m applying for a release date.
Absolute dark in my cell, heavy tramp of boots on the tier, and before they slapped a cover on the cell door window a CERT team marched past, armed to the teeth in Ninja suits. The usual cell-extraction confusion, chaos, and contradictory orders, the hours dragging to daylight. That afternoon, when they shut the crime scene down, removed the window cover, after they’d cut McGregor’s body down, I asked the Duty Sergeant if I could sit with him. No response of course.
But PA told me what happened. A nice woman, Laura or maybe Lauren, gone eight years now. Fresh from school and doing a prison job to get experience for a hospital job Outside. Did he leave a note? I asked. We were in an exam room. She shut the door, a rule violation. Didn’t you catch the date? I shrugged. Second Sunday in May, she explained. Mother’s Day. And yes, she added, he left a note: Mom, I'll see you in Hell.
I’ve had plenty of time to think about it and I’ll have a lifetime of sleepless nights ahead. Outside, my watch provided comfort and control life. Inside it’s a tyrant, crushing my days and given the meaningless nature of my existence, punishing me. My fellow prisoners say: we’ve all the time in the world. That’s the problem. We’re entombed. Outside, time plunges recklessly ahead on one occasion, only to slow to a crawl for another. Not Inside, here time is sluggish, a river of blood congested by barriers we’re unable to perceive. After McGregor I understand my need for release. But not the noose. I’m hoping for another chance, a slim chance perhaps but at least a chance, redeem myself for not doing more to save him.
Timothy M.
Pelican Bay State Prison
