The Decline of Paul Moore IV

The Decline of Paul Moore

Chapter Four: Middle of Nowhere

Jail, Prison, the Clink... A rose by any other name, you’ll still smell a rat. Prison, it’s exactly what you’d expect it to be… well… almost. Prison is absolutely a damp and claustrophobic nightmare, kind of. I have no doubt in my mind that many of these people are innocent. There are brilliant people here, but you have to look hard. This prison is also full of murderers. Mostly murderers, in fact. The idea of killing in the heat of passion is still alive and well and it lives in cell block “C”.
I met a man. His name was Kyle Radley. Pale skin, like a ghost. He was my cellmate. The man has night terrors and keeps me up, screaming until the guards quiet him down. One night, he let out a scream. A scream so ear-shatteringly hopeless and haunted that it gave me nightmares, he let out. When it comes to cellmates, I could have gotten much worse. It turns out that he is a “punk” to a certain prisoner, forced into a relationship with a prisoner in her who will rape him repeatedly in exchange for protection from other prisoners. He is still in there today. He will be for the rest of his natural life. Still being taken as a woman. It will remain this way until he’s pardoned or he is killed by a prisoner. Radley is a failure story.
The one thing about prison that never let me down is the fact that I’d be let down. Death Row is hell, or at least getting there. Death Row is the gates of hell where on the gate it reads “Abandon hope, all ye who enter.” Death Row is the definition of “just do it already.” As I found myself just waiting for death, I realized that it wasn’t coming any time soon. In Death Row, you’d better have a favorite meal because otherwise, you will have absolutely nothing to look forward to except for the embrace of death. Right about now, I’m feeling the hopelessness of a dead man. There is no happiness here except for the thought of revenge. If I was to sleep, I only think, no. It will not kill Rosa any faster. The library has a lot of books. I should read them, but Rosa is still living and getting away with it. I should eat something. But why? Aren’t they going to kill me anyway? I have nothing to do. I’m idle. Idle but not bored.
Watch around me. Who am I with? I am with murderers, this is enemy territory. I would put people here. I’d find people who killed and make damn certain that this is where they’d end up. I’d solve crimes and kill the people who commit them. These crimes are what I lived for. At the end of a crime is one of the only times that you feel like a detective, when you feel like someone who has done something right. You feel cool and calm. You feel like a protector or a guardian, well, for hire. Shield and Sword. Policeman for the Police-Oppressed. Those heros that you’d hear about on radio dramas, for a second, that’s you and it will always be a part of your legacy.
But then, one day, all that’s left is cold food and rich fantasies of putting a bullet through the head of a petite Italian woman. Defending people doesn’t matter anymore What you become is a survivor of the armed forces. You are still alive. You are still here and you are still angry.
Days become weeks and this is still you. This is not where you belong. This is not where I belong. And ironically enough, I’m screaming this is my cell cage on my 17th day in there. I’m screaming this after lights out and I can’t stop. I’m hearing other prisoners complain. “Hey man, shut the fuck up!” “Someone fucking get this guy outta here.” But I ignore these people. I’m on my knees, my hands clutching the cold concrete floors. Radley is on his bed in a fetal position, awake and listening. Not saying a word. I am screaming for him. Then a guard comes to my cell. Two of them actually. They grab my wrists and they drag me in handcuffs. They then throw me in the white padded cell. You know the one. I am alone in here, there is no one to listen to me scream, no one but myself and I don’t keep myself company very well. When someone came to deliver a meal, I asked them if I was crazy. They told me, no. I was just having some issues. A few days of solitary confinement made me lose track. About a month after the incident, I came back to my cell. Radley had finally done himself in with a sharp piece of concrete off of the wall to his wrist.
I then received a letter. It was from a government man. I wanted it to be from Rosa so badly so I could set fire to it. It started out “Dear Mr. Moore” Though the United States Government has made it so abundantly clear that they do not hold me dear at all.
“Dear Mr. Moore,
We regret to inform you that your father…” You don’t need to know his name. Another name to memorize isn’t good. “is dead.”
“Your father is dead.”
__

“Stephen Gonzales?”
“Dad, you have to believe me!”
There was silence on the line.
“Dad, you have to”
“I don’t have to believe anything! I’m sorry… Why did you do this?”
“I did, the…”
“Stop. Admit to your crimes and go down with dignity.”
“I DIDN’T KILL ANYBODY!!”
The files had been charged and as soon as my father heard that the victim was Stephen, he disowned me. I no longer had a father.
__

I no longer had a father.
“FUCKING ROSA!” I shouted after reading the letter. It was mail call of course and everyone was still in their cells. Everyone except for Kyle Radley.
In prison, it doesn’t take much to kill yourself. There are high floors, sharp stuff, angry cellmates. You have to fight to stay alive.
You need someone on your side in jail. But because of fucking Stephen, because of my fucking Dad, because of fucking Rosa, I’m alone and in jail. It hurts the most when your father is gone and he never had it in him to forgive me for something I didn’t do. And now I have to wait for my execution because I’m still too much of a coward to kill myself. A failure, any way you look at it.
And counting down, a mere ten hours after I receive my mail, I’m screaming in my cell again. I don’t remember what I was screaming, no one will tell me anyway. All I remember is the panic until I was drugged.
Even after two weeks in the insane hole, my father was still dead and I was still never forgiven. I still have nightmares. And then his funeral came. I would show up to his funeral, not dressed, just in an orange jumpsuit, something to hate while the other mourners mourn, not ever once taking into account the fact that I might be sad too.
My father served a term in the Navy, so he was given a military funeral. With my guards and the soldiers combined, there might have been more government officials than there were mourners.
I would not make it to the reception that day. I would go back home after the ceremony. I got stares. Everyone did exactly the same thing as the last person. Everyone would give me one quick glance, turn away and shake their head. They would think “Maybe he will reconsider his life of sin and evil” when I never did anything wrong in the first place. I got looks that shouted “Shame on you!” and “Don’t you feel terrible? Don’t you feel remorse?” and I’d shoot back a glare that would just scream
No.
These people validate my presence. When they go home, they can look at their spouse and say with a straight face “Honey, did you see that prisoner there?”
And then, without a second thought, a lightning bolt came. Black cars with men clad in dark sunglasses. They started speeding towards us. The guards tensed up, clutching a gun. They sped closer and nobody saw them besides me and my captors. The men saw no one but me and my captors. They were there for us.
As the motors got louder, people quieted down. There was an eerie silence as the men with sunglasses neared us.
And they aimed.
And they fired.
And before I realized what had happened, the guard to my right was dead. Before I turned to see him, the one to my left was dead as well. Both shot in the head. I felt strange feelings, feelings that held a small hint of hope, just a glimpse was enough. It took a few very long seconds to realize that people were screaming. My father hadn’t even been buried yet.
Tommy guns blazed, mowing down the two guards and one spectator. To my surprise, they stopped when they reached me.
“Get in.” I heard said to me in a heavy Italian accent. I got in.
“Hit it.” The same man said and we drove away quickly. The sound of police sirens were not that far away. I’ve never actually seen a person floor it before, but they did. It is a very terrifying experience.
“So… you’re the Mr. Moore that we’ve all been hearin’ ‘bout, huh?”
And I told them I prefer “Paul.” And they were silent, pretending that the car was going at a normal pace. The police sirens were getting closer. I heard these men speaking in Italian. Someone was asking something. The driver replied in a positive tone. That’s all I could pick up from that one.
“ORA!” I heard them shout out the window. Then, fifteen men in scarves and sunglasses appeared from the side of the road. Tommy guns blazing as Tommy guns usually blaze.
I didn’t have the courage to look behind me, but I heard an explosion.
“You… are safe now… Paul.”