The Hole
Elle Vivian
Rusty’s dark crown of hair peeks over the concrete wall that divides his bunk from the rest of C-Block. I approach, revealing his cowering form on the bed, knees to his chest.
I step into the entryway, and before his eyes meet mine, he springs back and pulls a shank from underneath him, pointing it at me.
“Whoa!” I raise my arms, nearly dropping the paper cup I’m holding. “Cool it. It’s me.”
Rusty looks me up and down manically but lowers the shank. “Show me your waistband.”
“Man, you asked me to come here.”
“Show me your waistband,” he says louder. “And your pockets.”
“What’s the matter with you?” I lift my shirt, and he creeps off the bed like a skittish cat, inspecting my waistband intensely.
He pats me down, weapon still gripped in his right hand.
“You want me to squat and cough?” I ask, hoping he realizes how ridiculous he’s being before he can check my shirt pocket.
He’s rubbing my pant legs, not looking at me. “No.”
I check him out from above. Dark circles, greasy hair. A slight tremor racks his body like his first day in the joint a year ago—still wearing orange, this nineteen-year-old wandered around the cafeteria with his eyes glued to his lunch tray. I took one look at him and assumed he was strung-out and trying to cop. It’s bad enough being fresh fish here; going cold turkey on top of it nearly killed me when I was booked, and I felt for him right away.
“Hey, kid!” I called to him as he passed me.
His head lifted, and those clear, dark eyes held innocence and terror like a trapped animal. “Me?” His face had already drained of color. He wasn’t high; just petrified.
“Yeah, you. Come here.” I waved him over.
His feet stayed planted.
“Come on, I don’t bite. I’m Sterling. Sit down.”
“What do you want?”
I cocked my head and laughed. “Nothing. You look like you’re being hunted. First day?”
He’s fallen into a sense of security this past year, knowing I’ve got his back if he needs me. But now, crouching before me, he’s worse than he was that first day; disheveled and paranoid, skulking around with shifty eyes. Rusty’s no junkie, but I know desperation when I see it.
He finishes frisking me, skipping my shirt pocket and standing to his full height, still a head shorter than me. “Okay.”
“Am I clean?”
“You’re clean.”
“Of course I’m clean. What, you think I’m gonna meet you—four in the afternoon, your own bunk—with a shiv poking my side?” I say, masking my concern with annoyance. “It’s me.”
“Sorry.” He turns around and sits on the bed again. “I’m a little jumpy.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s in the cup?”
“Poison. Come on, I brought you some tea. You want it?” I ask. “Put that thing away. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t reply but tucks the shank under his pillow, watching me step into his bunk and lower next to him on the bed. My joints yelp from age, and now I’ve got Rusty tensing me up, too. “Just be cool.” I hand him the warm paper cup, and he takes a tentative sip. He smells like he hasn’t showered. “What’s going on, kid?”
I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times today. No matter what Rusty says next, he has to believe I can protect him.
He swallows. “They’re gonna kill me.”
“Who?”
“Hatcher and his people.”
“What do you mean? Hatcher’s in solitary—”
“They let him out. Yesterday. He’s been peddling. I saw it myself. But they couldn’t find drugs on him, so he’s out again.”
My brow furrows. “Rusty, you snitched?”
“They’re after me now—”
“Why would you do that, you idiot?”
“And of course the guards don’t give a fuck unless it happens right in front of them—”
“Hey, slow down.” I grab his arms. “How do you know all that?”
Rusty isn’t the type to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, and Hatcher’s a terrible choice to provoke. He’s the type to knock someone’s teeth out for looking at him wrong.
He puts the tea down. “I caught him slipping some to Cordova last week. I guess he saw me. Then they put him in the Hole, and he probably put two and two together. But now he’s out, and last night he and four other guys ganged up on me in the bathroom. Look.” He lifts his chin to show a shallow cut going from his ear to the middle of his neck.
I lean closer. “Rusty…”
“I haven’t slept, Sterling. I can’t move. I’m so fucking scared…” His voice breaks, and the tears start.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I say, and his body goes limp against my chest. I wrap my arms around him and rub his neck as sobs rack his shoulders. “Shh. It’s me. I’m here.”
“I’m going to die,” he heaves into my neck.
I stare over his shoulder, squeezing him tight. It’s scary to see him in this state.
This is gonna be harder than I thought.
He pulls out of our embrace when his crying slows and wipes his eyes with the back of his hands, embarrassed.
I hand him the tea again. “Let’s get you cleaned up, kid. You look awful.”
“Sterling, when I die—”
“You’re not gonna die.”
He pauses. “If I die—if they say I overdosed or committed suicide, found me fuckin’ stabbed in the stomach or hanging from a shower head, it wasn’t suicide. You’re my witness. If they say it was suicide, tell them I said it wasn’t.”
I look at him, floundering for words. Part of me wants to help him, of course. I’ve got a soft spot for Rusty; he tells me crude jokes as we play checkers in the common room and brought me microwaved ramen when I caught the flu. Four months ago, my mother died, and Rusty somberly sat with me on my bed, silent for once with my head in his lap as I pushed down the urge to cry. This place feels homier, knowing I have someone who cares how I’m doing. That’s rare here. But he can only do so much for me. “All right. I’ll tell them.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank you,” he exhales. “So what do we do?”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Uh, two nights ago.”
“Aw, man.”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m scared to leave my bunk. They’re planning a hit on me. I know it.” He points at his neck. “This was just to scare me. They’re not done yet.”
“Who told you that?”
He stares at me.
“Come on, how do you know that? You’re sure that’s true?”
“Hatcher said so last night.”
“No way. What good does that do? They would have killed you if they wanted to.”
“I don’t know. Maybe the bathrooms were too open.”
“What about work? Are you skipping that?” Rusty works in the laundry room and should be there now, come to think of it.
“I told them I’m sick.”
“Yeah, well, you’re lucky you look the part. I’ve got Mendez stalling for me in Electric. I gotta go soon.” I rise from the bed, my patience waning. “Look, you’re not doing yourself any good sitting here alone. The more eyes on you, the better, right? They’re not gonna come at you with witnesses, especially guards.”
He nods quickly. “Can I come with you to Electric?”
“Sure. Lawson won’t care as long as you’re working.”
“Hopefully no one from Laundry sees.”
“Yeah, well, you know what happens to snitches. And I hate to say it, but you gotta shower first. Your hair’s gonna start a grease fire. I vote we head to the bathrooms, then Electric.”
“But nobody’s in the showers right now.”
“I’ll be there. I’ll keep an eye on you the whole time. Don’t forget your tea.”
~ ~ ~
About this time yesterday, Hatcher passed me in the hallway. It surprised me; last I heard, he was in solitary. “Yo, Sterling. You got a sec?”
I avoid Hatcher if I can, but he stepped in front of me. “I’m late for work,” I said, trying to bypass him.
“I’ve got something for you.”
“I’m good.”
“No, it’s cool. No strings attached.” He grabbed my hand, slipping something into it.
I froze, not having to look to know what it was.
“Let me know if you want more.”
I scoffed and tensed my jaw, a real tough guy. “I don’t want this.”
“You hold on to it, then.” He wanted a reaction from me, but I wasn’t going to give it to him. “You know that Rusty asshole, right?”
“Sure, we talk.”
He studied my face and chuckled. “You know where to find me.” He bounced out of my way and continued down the hall, and I shoved my hand into my pants pocket before a guard could see.
~ ~ ~
Stuck with gum underneath the bathroom counter is a handwritten note folded and pressed inside a plastic bottle cap. Gardening shed 7pm. I’ve got three hours to drag Rusty there.
He’s toweling off from his shower, this little kid with a big mouth. I have to remember he’s going to die whether I help him or not. Hatcher is unrelenting, but he’s got what I need to forget about Rusty. It’ll beat white-knuckling it.
I’m sticking the note back when Rusty catches me watching him. “Pervert,” he teases. One-track mind, this guy.
I smirk. “Just looking.” But no, I can’t go there today. I’ve gotta stay focused.
“Can we go to the chapel after work?” he asks, throwing a shirt over his head.
“The chapel?”
“Yeah.”
“What, you got some repenting to do?”
“Well, you don’t have to make fun of it—”
“I’m not making fun of it. I get it, believe me. But we gotta have eyes on us. Actual, physical, human eyes.”
“So you can protect me in the bathrooms, but not the chapel?”
“I’m not much of a bodyguard anywhere.” Hatcher and his people are muscular guys in their thirties, and I’m a forty-five-year-old heroin addict with back problems. “Even you could take me. If you’ve gotta repent, make things right with Hatcher, not God.”
“Sterling, please? Just ten minutes.”
I glare at him for all of three seconds before caving. “Fine. After work.”
“Thank you.” He turns to leave, waving at me to follow.
“I say you get yourself sent to solitary; no one there to kill you,” I mumble, rolling my eyes and walking behind him. “God’s all you’ve got there.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve been before. At least Hatcher will kill me quickly.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I suppose he deserves his moment with God. I should repent too, if I can manage.
~ ~ ~
After my encounter with Hatcher, I sat on my bed, an open book against my knees concealing the small plastic bag of brown powder. I examined it, opened it, sniffed it.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
My rational mind considered marching to the bathrooms and flushing it, but my body rebelled at the thought, screaming NO as if I’d considered cutting off my own arm.
I swore I’d never touch heroin again. It sent me here, made me steal and lie and say things I’m not proud of, almost killed me. I went through withdrawals; the sweating and vomiting and shaking should’ve been deterrent enough. I thought I’d die. I wasn’t going to throw away three years of sobriety for one bump, especially not if Hatcher was the supplier.
But here it was in my hand, and I couldn’t let go.
I zipped the bag shut and rotated it in my fingers absentmindedly.
I’d like to pretend I’m recovered, able to admit it ruined my life, but I’ve thought about shooting up everyday. That first time, every muscle in my body relaxed. My eyes closed, and I sank into an ocean of warm honey. The world became quiet; the grief I carried and evils of politicians and horrors of being a person had melted away. At last, life had meaning. I was loved by someone.
Now it was in my palm, and I had to convince myself I didn’t want it anymore.
I pressed my hands together, enclosing the bag, bowed my head, and prayed.
~ ~ ~
After our short half-shift in Electric, Rusty and I head to the chapel during our free time before dinner. It’s a greenish-gray auditorium with vague representations of every denomination drawn on a long scroll of torn, curling paper on the wall. I used to come here regularly, but I’ve fallen off the past few months, and the musty air carries guilt.
It’s empty except me and Rusty. We’re meant to spend free time in our bunks or the common room; inmates aren’t supposed to be here unless a service is in session. But if a guard saw us, they looked the other way. On the stage, we pull out the piano stool and sit next to each other, staring at the frosted glass window as the five-thirty sun burns orange light behind it.
Reverence replaces Rusty’s shakiness as he basks in the warm glow. It reminds me of Ma, who used to sit on the porch in her rocking chair at this time of day, watching as we played in the yard before sundown. Rusty has the same peaceful expression in the golden light. I admire his boyish face out of the corner of my eye, and warmth spreads through me. I try to ignore it.
“Sterling, what’s your name?”
I face him, confounded. “What do you mean, what’s my name? It’s Sterling.”
“Your real name. Your first name.”
“I don’t got one,” I say, looking straight ahead.
“Of course you do.”
I shrug. “Everyone calls me Sterling.”
“Even your mother?”
“My mother don’t call me anything. She’s dead.”
“What did she call you?”
I answer with a cough. Light stretches across the stage like the silence between us.
My name growing up was Lou. Ma called me Louie. Even as a teenager when I came home late reeking of weed, trying to be inconspicuous, she would ignore it, kissing my cheek and sending me upstairs with a “Goodnight, Louie.” I never corrected her or insisted she call me Lou now that I was grown. She didn’t know how to help me. “Louie” was her way of holding on to her little boy, I figured.
“You know my real name’s Rusty.”
“Yeah, so?” I ask. Rusty’s got a long last name nobody bothers to try pronouncing, so everyone calls him by his first name. I think it makes him seem like a kid. First names are more personal.
My foot bounces against the stage, and I’m suddenly conscious of how sober I am. It scares me how even sitting in a chapel, drugs are on my mind, not God. I wish Hatcher’s guys would jump him now and get it over with.
“I just realized we’ve known each other all this time, and you’ve never told me your first name.”
“Don’t need to. Sterling works.”
“You’re really not gonna tell me?”
“You gonna repent or not?”
“I already did.”
“How? When?”
“Not too much to be sorry for.”
Huh. I have gray temples, aching joints, and this craving gripping me like a vice, but Rusty refuses to be tethered. I love that about him, but now it’s led us here. “Says the inmate in prison.”
“I don’t regret that. I regret getting caught, but I know why I did it.” Rusty robbed a gas station or something stupid, getting two years for it. It’s funny imagining this scrawny kid trying to scare anyone. Probably why he got caught.
My hand rests on his thigh. He puts his fingers over mine and sighs.
“Now I’m mixed up in this shit, and I’m gonna fucking die for it.” He snorts.
“So why’d you snitch on Hatcher, huh?” I lean forward.
He turns and studies me again.
He’s onto me. He’s gotta be.
“What?” I ask.
He looks straight ahead, golden sun shining over his face, turning his eyes into honey. “For you.”
A painful jolt in my chest couples with relief. “You snitched for me?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean?”
He won’t look at me; he keeps staring out the window. “Well, I didn’t know he saw me. But with Hatcher dealing, I knew if you ever heard about it, you’d sniff it out. They could bury it six feet down, and you’d still manage to find it.”
I smack his arm. “Man, I’m clean. I’ve been clean for three years.”
“Yeah, and I know you miss it every day. That’s pretty clear.”
I scoff and lean back.
“I figured I would stop that shit at the source before they sold to you. Even though I’m not a rat.”
“Come on. I wouldn’t touch that stuff.”
“You’re telling me if you heard he was selling, you wouldn’t even consider it?”
I wait a second too long to respond.
“That’s what I fuckin’ thought. So you’re welcome.”
“Hey, cut it out with the cursing, will ya?” I say, my nerves fried. “We’re in a chapel.”
“What, like you don’t curse?”
“I’m Italian Catholic. I respect God; I respect the Pope. I respect my mother. I don’t curse.”
“Your mother’s dead, remember?”
“Yeah, and she’d roll over in her grave if I had a mouth like yours.”
The pit in my stomach grows. He snitched for me, risked his life to keep me clean, and now I’m his executioner. I guess I’ve made an impression, protecting him up to this point, and he wanted to return the favor. Maybe genuine, misguided affection for me led him here. The guilt eats at me like worms. I care about him, too, and should drop this whole charade.
I never considered a love had formed between us. He’s young, though; he doesn’t know what that means. He cries on my shoulder and flirts without shame. He thinks it’s noble, not stupid, to shield me from myself. And although I know his affection is naive, stemming from feeling safe with me in this terrifying world, my heart aches at the notion that I’m betraying him.
But no matter how it goes down, Hatcher will kill him, and I can cash in on it or not. Even knowing Rusty would die for me, I still crave that warm light, that feeling of sitting in a rocking chair at sunset, my mother wrapping me in a blanket and calling me Louie, and knowing how good it is to be loved. And more than Rusty can give me, more than Ma did, I’ve only ever found that in heroin.
“Sterling the Saint,” Rusty grins, unfazed. “I bet you don’t drink either, right?”
I focus on the wooden cross on the wall. “Sure, I drink.”
“I thought you were clean.”
“I am clean. I’m drugs-clean. Man, what are you interrogating me for?” I shift, ready to leave.
“I’m not. I have some hooch stashed away. Thought maybe we should partake, since I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
He ignores me. “But you said we should have eyes on us, right? It’s in the bathroom.”
“Man, where are we supposed to drink it? The common room?” I spring from the piano stool. This chapel is stifling, and a drink would loosen me up. “If you get thrown in solitary, I’m not joining you.” But I soften when he raises his hand, asking for a lift up, and as he stands, the sun shines over his whole body.
~ ~ ~
Rusty opens a loose tile in one of the grimy shower stalls, revealing a hole in the wall where he’s stored a plastic two-liter of brownish liquid. He pulls it out with gusto and looks back at me, smiling proudly. “A-ha!”
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” I say, stepping into the large stall and pulling the curtain shut, out of view from the cameras. Rusty slides down the wall. “Wait,” I say and take off my khaki shirt, keeping my white undershirt on. “We shouldn’t sit on these floors.” I cover the grubby shower drain.
We sit, backs against the tile, passing the hooch between us. I’m alert, keeping my ears open for a guard or Hatcher’s guys, but as the bottle empties, my mind becomes fuzzy and unfocused. Months worth of tension melt from my muscles.
It’s nice being here with Rusty. I could imagine staying here with him, drinking this disgusting hooch for two, three more hours, and his dirty mouth could ask me as many questions as he wanted, his head resting on my shoulder. Warmth would be in and around me, and I’d have all I need.
Beside me, he’s maudlin. “There’s no chance of me getting out of here, is there?”
I snort. “I don’t know. But guess what? You’ve got me to protect you.” I almost mean it. Protecting him is a habit, and quitting is proving to be difficult.
I look away as his lip quivers. I can’t stand to see him cry again today.
“I never thought I’d die in prison,” he sobs quietly. “I wanted to see my mom again. Redeem myself a little bit, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“She hasn’t visited me once since I was booked. I got thrown in here trying to help the family, help her, and she hates me for it.”
I stroke his thigh, my stomach twisting.
I can’t bring him to that gardening shed.
Twenty years old, and the kid is so loyal. He went to prison for his family, snitched on Hatcher for me. He brings me noodles when I’m sick. He asks me questions about myself for no reason other than wanting to know me better. He goes out of his way to make an aging addict liar feel good.
I could report Hatcher; he’d never know it was me. They’d put him in the Hole again or send him to max if they found his stash. Rusty would be safe and redeem himself with his mother, and I’d have done the right thing. I’d maintain my chance at seeing Heaven. I’d be clean, he’d be in the clear, and we’d carry on having lunch in the cafeteria and flings in the broom closet.
“Did your mother know you ended up here?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“How’d she feel about it?”
I take a swig of the hooch. “It broke her heart.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Sterling.”
“Yeah, well.”
He wipes his face and grabs the bottle. We sit in silence as he drinks. “You know, I’m scared as hell to die.”
“You’re not gonna die, kid.”
“Stop lying. Everybody dies.”
“You’re not gonna die,” I say louder, nauseated.
I can’t report Hatcher; there are too many moving parts. I don’t know who he works with or if the guards would find anything on him. Then I’d have a target on my back, too, and Rusty and I would both be dead.
“Well, if Hatcher was gonna come for either you or me, I don’t regret what I did.”
I don’t answer. I can’t look at him.
“I don’t know what kind of life I’d have outside of prison anyway. I’ve got nothing out there. I’ve got my family, sure. Well, maybe not my mom anymore. But no job, no money. And with a record, I’d just end up back here, probably. You, you’re clean now.”
I stare ahead, his words a haze. “Uh-huh.”
“You came here all strung-out, and now you’re good as new. You’re smart. You’ll get out and have your life back. And if getting eyes on Hatcher would keep you clean, it was worth it.” He leans his head on my shoulder.
Sweat runs down my face. “What time is it?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“It’s getting late.”
“Why, you got somewhere to be?”
“No, just curious. It’s hot in here, no?”
“I’m fine. I feel nice.” He caresses my arm and plays with the shirt in his other hand.
I wipe my forehead, suffocating. Images of Hatcher and his guys garroting Rusty, bashing his head in, stabbing him flash through my mind.
I can’t do it.
He fidgets beside me, shifting his weight like he’s adjusting his pants.
If I told him Hatcher gave me drugs, Rusty would deal with it for me. He could flush it with no hesitation, and it’d be out of sight, out of mind. I’d still crave it, sure, but Rusty--
He sits straighter and turns to me, and time slows to a halt. His eyes darken; his giddy smile sinks into a firm line.
I look at the baggie in his right hand, and my blood turns to ice.
He knows.
“Sterling,” he says quietly. “What’s this?”
I stare at him stupidly, mind racing.
“Sterling,” he says louder. “Where did you get this?”
Unconvincingly, I reply, “What, you think that’s mine?”
“It was in your shirt pocket.” His words are daggers. “Who gave this to you?”
He sees right through me. Shame and sorrow swirl amongst the pitiful excuses I could give him in my drunken state.
He raises his eyebrows. “Was it Hatcher?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“I’ve gotta go.” He stands, pocketing the bag. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Hey!” I protest. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I don’t feel good.” He opens the shower curtain and runs out of the bathroom. I stand to follow him, grabbing my dirty shirt and leaving the hooch, but he’s booking it.
I catch him turning down the hallway into the common room. A few people are playing board games at tables when I walk in, and two guards stand in the corner. I spot Rusty standing against the wall, arms crossed and shoulders tense.
I approach him carefully. “Rusty, give me the bag. You don’t wanna get caught with that.”
“You fucking junkie.” His stare is deadly. “Are you using?”
I fight to keep my voice down. “Kid, I told you I’m clean.”
“Quit calling me that. I risked my ass to keep you away from this shit, and you’ve had it this whole time?”
“Hatcher came to me! I told him I didn’t want it.”
“Then why do you have it?”
I look at the guards; they’re not paying attention to us. My voice drops to a whisper. “You have it, and if you’re caught, you’ll die in the Hole. Seriously, give it to me.” I mean it; I don’t care about the heroin. “I’ve been playing bodyguard all day, and you think I’m double-crossing you?”
“Double-crossing?” He searches my face.
It hits me like a ton of bricks; he didn’t know what I was doing to get the drugs. I can’t backtrack.
“Sterling, why did Hatcher give this to you?”
I look into his eyes—misty, dark, filled with the same terror they had that day we met in the cafeteria. They search for safety, trying to land on someone trustworthy and good, but the innocent kid who saw that in me is crumbling.
I put my cards on the table. “He targeted me. He knows we’re close and said if I could bring you to him, he’d give me more. But I changed my mind. I swear I did. I had a moment of weakness.”
“You’re full of shit,” he spits.
“I swear on my life; on my mother’s life.”
He peers at me but shakes his head. “No. You’re a liar. And so what if they find it on me? You said I should go to the Hole anyway. For protection.”
I throw a Hail Mary. “All right, how about we go to the bathrooms and flush it? You can do it yourself. Would that prove to you I don’t want it anymore?” I need him to forgive me. I won’t have anything if he doesn’t.
“Fuck no. I’m not going anywhere alone with you.”
My heart drops into my stomach.
“How do I know you won’t just kill me and take the bag? Or that Hatcher won’t be waiting there for us? Where were you supposed to lure me, huh?”
“Honest, Rusty, I’d never be able to do it. It’s me. You know me. I’d do anything for you.”
“For me? No. You’d do anything for smack.”
Anger shoots through me like a cannonball. “Like I haven’t given you anything? I’ve been by your side since your first day here. No one forced me to look after you.”
“Don’t act like I’m a fucking leech. I’ve done shit for you, too.”
“What have you done for me?”
His brow furrows. “Kept you alive! And you’d sell me to Hatcher for one hit!”
I shush him, checking if the guards are listening, but they’ve moved into the far corner. “You have no clue what it’s like being an addict, Rusty,” I whisper. “It makes you do things you don’t want to do.”
“Hatcher didn’t ask you to turn tricks, Sterling. He asked you to kill me.”
“I have to look after myself. Either way you slice it, you’re gonna die.”
“So that’s it? I’m a goner, and you’re just gonna pump yourself with poison to ease your guilt?”
“I didn’t ask you to report Hatcher. You made choices, and you’ve gotta live with the consequences. That’s why you’re gonna die. Not me. I had nothing to do with it.”
He tilts his head, becoming small as his shoulders slump in defeat, and regret swells within me.
“You’re right.” As he reaches into his pants, he looks up at me, and I almost flinch at the iciness of his gaze. “I shouldn’t have done anything.” He drops the bag into my shirt pocket. “You’re fucking dirt, Sterling.”
He walks off, leaving my chest tight at the lingering, phantom pressure of his hands and the heroin over my pounding heart.
I have no right to be angry at the lamb running from a wolf. But I’m furious—at myself, at Hatcher for tempting me, even at God for not killing me when I was strung-out.
~ ~ ~
I head to the gardening shed. Pink and purple stretch across the horizon, dark clouds forming ahead. Hatcher’s guys should be nearby, but I don’t care anymore. I have nothing for them, so they won’t have anything for me.
I look at the dirty shirt and baggie in my hands. Stupid junkie move, carrying it around, unable to part with it. But it’s all I’ve got now.
I open the bag, covering it with my hand as I hold it close to my face.
Hatcher will still kill him. But I won’t be pulling the trolley’s lever, so I can’t cop from him, and I’ll need more once it’s in my system. I’m resourceful. I can do all sorts of favors; whatever he needs, I’m willing. As long as it’s not Rusty.
Those wide, hateful eyes had looked at me like I was a stranger.
Heroin and alcohol can be a deadly mix, but I glance around and back up against the shed before tipping the bag vertically to my nose. Snorting isn’t my first choice, but I can’t shoot up around here. I press on my nostril and breathe in.
The dry powder shooting up my nose has an underwhelming effect—mainlining would give a stronger rush—but warmth still spreads through me like a hug. My eyelids droop and muscles loosen as light glows within me.
I put the bag in my pants pocket and watch the sunset, debating going into the shed and working out a deal with Hatcher when I spot Officer Emerson walking into the garden. Dinner is starting, and most of the guards are in the cafeteria, so unless he’s here for a smoke, Hatcher better bounce. Rusty probably snitched again.
Instead of going into the shed, though, Emerson heads toward me.
“Sterling,” he barks, stepping up. “Hey!”
“Huh?” I ask before I can think about my tone.
“Pat-down.” He grabs my arm, and I instinctively flinch.
“Why? What’s going on?” I’m rocking on waves.
He examines my face. “Are you on something?”
I snort. “No.”
“Hold out your arms.”
“What? What’d I do?”
Before I can react, he’s reaching into my pants pocket and pulling out the bag like he knew it was there. My entire body goes numb, ice shooting through the warmth. He looks at the heroin, chuckles, and pulls at my arm, leading me out of the garden. “You’re going to solitary.”
“Yo, that isn’t mine.”
“Possession and use of an illegal substance. That’s a month in the Hole.” He pushes me toward D-Block.
“Did Rusty send you?”
“You better shut your mouth, Sterling. You can go to max, if you’d prefer.”
“Did Rusty tell you? Check the gardening shed! It’s all Hatcher’s! He’s right there!”
“Keep talking. Please, go ahead.”
We enter D-Block’s long, gray corridor leading to the solitary cells. I’ve never been before and don’t know what to expect.
But the second I’m out, I’m going to kill that kid.
~ ~ ~
Time goes by—how much, I have no idea, but it’s long enough for the mix of hooch and heroin to wreak havoc on my body.
The buzz dies, and although it was only a slip, the effects are like I was never clean at all, kicking in with a viciousness I didn’t experience the first time. Forced to pace anxiously, I scream and pound the concrete walls, but neither the cell nor the guards show mercy. My blood sugar crashes, and the nausea kicks in. I vomit until bile scalds my throat, resting my sweaty face against the metal toilet seat. Involuntary tears streak my face.
Time doesn’t exist in the Hole. It’s all fluorescent lights and dark concrete scratched in downward trails. The occasional scream pierces the silence. I don’t have the stomach to eat, and food trays pile on the floor by the door as I writhe in pain.
Laying in the fetal position on the floor, my muscles twitching, I stare at the blurry walls of my cell. Did Rusty send me here out of spite? Or despite my plan, would he still die to keep me clean? I’d almost respect it if I could think past the fire coursing through my blood. If I kill myself in here somehow, he’ll really be sorry.
Without me to protect him, he’s alone. If Hatcher’s still after him, he doesn’t stand a chance.
I hate him, and I’m so scared of what they’ll do to him.
~ ~ ~
I’m dozing when I hear muffled voices in the hallway on the other side of my door. They’re not talking to me, but they’re my only connection to the outside world. I crawl off my cot toward the steel door. It’s better than listening to my own thoughts and the aching of my body.
“—in one of the broom closets.” The voice gets closer and clearer.
“Who?” Another voice and the sound of the rolling food cart.
“Kuribayashi.”
“No way.”
That long last name I could never remember. Rusty. The small food door to my cell opens; an unimpressive tray slips in. I ignore it. My appetite’s gone.
“Suicide?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“He did look rough this past week. Did you see him?”
The cart wheels past my cell, and the voices fade. I crawl to the wall beside me.
My chest tightens, and I cry a pathetic, self-pitying wail that’s lost to silent, timeless space. I cry for Rusty, for Ma, for the heroin, all out of reach now.
I’m left with God, no longer my protector, but my condemner. Rather than warm light, he hovers above in the form of fluorescents, watching, listening, and doing nothing as I suffocate in this hole I have dug.
January 2026
Elle Vivian
Rusty’s dark crown of hair peeks over the concrete wall that divides his bunk from the rest of C-Block. I approach, revealing his cowering form on the bed, knees to his chest.
I step into the entryway, and before his eyes meet mine, he springs back and pulls a shank from underneath him, pointing it at me.
“Whoa!” I raise my arms, nearly dropping the paper cup I’m holding. “Cool it. It’s me.”
Rusty looks me up and down manically but lowers the shank. “Show me your waistband.”
“Man, you asked me to come here.”
“Show me your waistband,” he says louder. “And your pockets.”
“What’s the matter with you?” I lift my shirt, and he creeps off the bed like a skittish cat, inspecting my waistband intensely.
He pats me down, weapon still gripped in his right hand.
“You want me to squat and cough?” I ask, hoping he realizes how ridiculous he’s being before he can check my shirt pocket.
He’s rubbing my pant legs, not looking at me. “No.”
I check him out from above. Dark circles, greasy hair. A slight tremor racks his body like his first day in the joint a year ago—still wearing orange, this nineteen-year-old wandered around the cafeteria with his eyes glued to his lunch tray. I took one look at him and assumed he was strung-out and trying to cop. It’s bad enough being fresh fish here; going cold turkey on top of it nearly killed me when I was booked, and I felt for him right away.
“Hey, kid!” I called to him as he passed me.
His head lifted, and those clear, dark eyes held innocence and terror like a trapped animal. “Me?” His face had already drained of color. He wasn’t high; just petrified.
“Yeah, you. Come here.” I waved him over.
His feet stayed planted.
“Come on, I don’t bite. I’m Sterling. Sit down.”
“What do you want?”
I cocked my head and laughed. “Nothing. You look like you’re being hunted. First day?”
He’s fallen into a sense of security this past year, knowing I’ve got his back if he needs me. But now, crouching before me, he’s worse than he was that first day; disheveled and paranoid, skulking around with shifty eyes. Rusty’s no junkie, but I know desperation when I see it.
He finishes frisking me, skipping my shirt pocket and standing to his full height, still a head shorter than me. “Okay.”
“Am I clean?”
“You’re clean.”
“Of course I’m clean. What, you think I’m gonna meet you—four in the afternoon, your own bunk—with a shiv poking my side?” I say, masking my concern with annoyance. “It’s me.”
“Sorry.” He turns around and sits on the bed again. “I’m a little jumpy.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s in the cup?”
“Poison. Come on, I brought you some tea. You want it?” I ask. “Put that thing away. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t reply but tucks the shank under his pillow, watching me step into his bunk and lower next to him on the bed. My joints yelp from age, and now I’ve got Rusty tensing me up, too. “Just be cool.” I hand him the warm paper cup, and he takes a tentative sip. He smells like he hasn’t showered. “What’s going on, kid?”
I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times today. No matter what Rusty says next, he has to believe I can protect him.
He swallows. “They’re gonna kill me.”
“Who?”
“Hatcher and his people.”
“What do you mean? Hatcher’s in solitary—”
“They let him out. Yesterday. He’s been peddling. I saw it myself. But they couldn’t find drugs on him, so he’s out again.”
My brow furrows. “Rusty, you snitched?”
“They’re after me now—”
“Why would you do that, you idiot?”
“And of course the guards don’t give a fuck unless it happens right in front of them—”
“Hey, slow down.” I grab his arms. “How do you know all that?”
Rusty isn’t the type to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, and Hatcher’s a terrible choice to provoke. He’s the type to knock someone’s teeth out for looking at him wrong.
He puts the tea down. “I caught him slipping some to Cordova last week. I guess he saw me. Then they put him in the Hole, and he probably put two and two together. But now he’s out, and last night he and four other guys ganged up on me in the bathroom. Look.” He lifts his chin to show a shallow cut going from his ear to the middle of his neck.
I lean closer. “Rusty…”
“I haven’t slept, Sterling. I can’t move. I’m so fucking scared…” His voice breaks, and the tears start.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I say, and his body goes limp against my chest. I wrap my arms around him and rub his neck as sobs rack his shoulders. “Shh. It’s me. I’m here.”
“I’m going to die,” he heaves into my neck.
I stare over his shoulder, squeezing him tight. It’s scary to see him in this state.
This is gonna be harder than I thought.
He pulls out of our embrace when his crying slows and wipes his eyes with the back of his hands, embarrassed.
I hand him the tea again. “Let’s get you cleaned up, kid. You look awful.”
“Sterling, when I die—”
“You’re not gonna die.”
He pauses. “If I die—if they say I overdosed or committed suicide, found me fuckin’ stabbed in the stomach or hanging from a shower head, it wasn’t suicide. You’re my witness. If they say it was suicide, tell them I said it wasn’t.”
I look at him, floundering for words. Part of me wants to help him, of course. I’ve got a soft spot for Rusty; he tells me crude jokes as we play checkers in the common room and brought me microwaved ramen when I caught the flu. Four months ago, my mother died, and Rusty somberly sat with me on my bed, silent for once with my head in his lap as I pushed down the urge to cry. This place feels homier, knowing I have someone who cares how I’m doing. That’s rare here. But he can only do so much for me. “All right. I’ll tell them.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank you,” he exhales. “So what do we do?”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Uh, two nights ago.”
“Aw, man.”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m scared to leave my bunk. They’re planning a hit on me. I know it.” He points at his neck. “This was just to scare me. They’re not done yet.”
“Who told you that?”
He stares at me.
“Come on, how do you know that? You’re sure that’s true?”
“Hatcher said so last night.”
“No way. What good does that do? They would have killed you if they wanted to.”
“I don’t know. Maybe the bathrooms were too open.”
“What about work? Are you skipping that?” Rusty works in the laundry room and should be there now, come to think of it.
“I told them I’m sick.”
“Yeah, well, you’re lucky you look the part. I’ve got Mendez stalling for me in Electric. I gotta go soon.” I rise from the bed, my patience waning. “Look, you’re not doing yourself any good sitting here alone. The more eyes on you, the better, right? They’re not gonna come at you with witnesses, especially guards.”
He nods quickly. “Can I come with you to Electric?”
“Sure. Lawson won’t care as long as you’re working.”
“Hopefully no one from Laundry sees.”
“Yeah, well, you know what happens to snitches. And I hate to say it, but you gotta shower first. Your hair’s gonna start a grease fire. I vote we head to the bathrooms, then Electric.”
“But nobody’s in the showers right now.”
“I’ll be there. I’ll keep an eye on you the whole time. Don’t forget your tea.”
~ ~ ~
About this time yesterday, Hatcher passed me in the hallway. It surprised me; last I heard, he was in solitary. “Yo, Sterling. You got a sec?”
I avoid Hatcher if I can, but he stepped in front of me. “I’m late for work,” I said, trying to bypass him.
“I’ve got something for you.”
“I’m good.”
“No, it’s cool. No strings attached.” He grabbed my hand, slipping something into it.
I froze, not having to look to know what it was.
“Let me know if you want more.”
I scoffed and tensed my jaw, a real tough guy. “I don’t want this.”
“You hold on to it, then.” He wanted a reaction from me, but I wasn’t going to give it to him. “You know that Rusty asshole, right?”
“Sure, we talk.”
He studied my face and chuckled. “You know where to find me.” He bounced out of my way and continued down the hall, and I shoved my hand into my pants pocket before a guard could see.
~ ~ ~
Stuck with gum underneath the bathroom counter is a handwritten note folded and pressed inside a plastic bottle cap. Gardening shed 7pm. I’ve got three hours to drag Rusty there.
He’s toweling off from his shower, this little kid with a big mouth. I have to remember he’s going to die whether I help him or not. Hatcher is unrelenting, but he’s got what I need to forget about Rusty. It’ll beat white-knuckling it.
I’m sticking the note back when Rusty catches me watching him. “Pervert,” he teases. One-track mind, this guy.
I smirk. “Just looking.” But no, I can’t go there today. I’ve gotta stay focused.
“Can we go to the chapel after work?” he asks, throwing a shirt over his head.
“The chapel?”
“Yeah.”
“What, you got some repenting to do?”
“Well, you don’t have to make fun of it—”
“I’m not making fun of it. I get it, believe me. But we gotta have eyes on us. Actual, physical, human eyes.”
“So you can protect me in the bathrooms, but not the chapel?”
“I’m not much of a bodyguard anywhere.” Hatcher and his people are muscular guys in their thirties, and I’m a forty-five-year-old heroin addict with back problems. “Even you could take me. If you’ve gotta repent, make things right with Hatcher, not God.”
“Sterling, please? Just ten minutes.”
I glare at him for all of three seconds before caving. “Fine. After work.”
“Thank you.” He turns to leave, waving at me to follow.
“I say you get yourself sent to solitary; no one there to kill you,” I mumble, rolling my eyes and walking behind him. “God’s all you’ve got there.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve been before. At least Hatcher will kill me quickly.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I suppose he deserves his moment with God. I should repent too, if I can manage.
~ ~ ~
After my encounter with Hatcher, I sat on my bed, an open book against my knees concealing the small plastic bag of brown powder. I examined it, opened it, sniffed it.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
My rational mind considered marching to the bathrooms and flushing it, but my body rebelled at the thought, screaming NO as if I’d considered cutting off my own arm.
I swore I’d never touch heroin again. It sent me here, made me steal and lie and say things I’m not proud of, almost killed me. I went through withdrawals; the sweating and vomiting and shaking should’ve been deterrent enough. I thought I’d die. I wasn’t going to throw away three years of sobriety for one bump, especially not if Hatcher was the supplier.
But here it was in my hand, and I couldn’t let go.
I zipped the bag shut and rotated it in my fingers absentmindedly.
I’d like to pretend I’m recovered, able to admit it ruined my life, but I’ve thought about shooting up everyday. That first time, every muscle in my body relaxed. My eyes closed, and I sank into an ocean of warm honey. The world became quiet; the grief I carried and evils of politicians and horrors of being a person had melted away. At last, life had meaning. I was loved by someone.
Now it was in my palm, and I had to convince myself I didn’t want it anymore.
I pressed my hands together, enclosing the bag, bowed my head, and prayed.
~ ~ ~
After our short half-shift in Electric, Rusty and I head to the chapel during our free time before dinner. It’s a greenish-gray auditorium with vague representations of every denomination drawn on a long scroll of torn, curling paper on the wall. I used to come here regularly, but I’ve fallen off the past few months, and the musty air carries guilt.
It’s empty except me and Rusty. We’re meant to spend free time in our bunks or the common room; inmates aren’t supposed to be here unless a service is in session. But if a guard saw us, they looked the other way. On the stage, we pull out the piano stool and sit next to each other, staring at the frosted glass window as the five-thirty sun burns orange light behind it.
Reverence replaces Rusty’s shakiness as he basks in the warm glow. It reminds me of Ma, who used to sit on the porch in her rocking chair at this time of day, watching as we played in the yard before sundown. Rusty has the same peaceful expression in the golden light. I admire his boyish face out of the corner of my eye, and warmth spreads through me. I try to ignore it.
“Sterling, what’s your name?”
I face him, confounded. “What do you mean, what’s my name? It’s Sterling.”
“Your real name. Your first name.”
“I don’t got one,” I say, looking straight ahead.
“Of course you do.”
I shrug. “Everyone calls me Sterling.”
“Even your mother?”
“My mother don’t call me anything. She’s dead.”
“What did she call you?”
I answer with a cough. Light stretches across the stage like the silence between us.
My name growing up was Lou. Ma called me Louie. Even as a teenager when I came home late reeking of weed, trying to be inconspicuous, she would ignore it, kissing my cheek and sending me upstairs with a “Goodnight, Louie.” I never corrected her or insisted she call me Lou now that I was grown. She didn’t know how to help me. “Louie” was her way of holding on to her little boy, I figured.
“You know my real name’s Rusty.”
“Yeah, so?” I ask. Rusty’s got a long last name nobody bothers to try pronouncing, so everyone calls him by his first name. I think it makes him seem like a kid. First names are more personal.
My foot bounces against the stage, and I’m suddenly conscious of how sober I am. It scares me how even sitting in a chapel, drugs are on my mind, not God. I wish Hatcher’s guys would jump him now and get it over with.
“I just realized we’ve known each other all this time, and you’ve never told me your first name.”
“Don’t need to. Sterling works.”
“You’re really not gonna tell me?”
“You gonna repent or not?”
“I already did.”
“How? When?”
“Not too much to be sorry for.”
Huh. I have gray temples, aching joints, and this craving gripping me like a vice, but Rusty refuses to be tethered. I love that about him, but now it’s led us here. “Says the inmate in prison.”
“I don’t regret that. I regret getting caught, but I know why I did it.” Rusty robbed a gas station or something stupid, getting two years for it. It’s funny imagining this scrawny kid trying to scare anyone. Probably why he got caught.
My hand rests on his thigh. He puts his fingers over mine and sighs.
“Now I’m mixed up in this shit, and I’m gonna fucking die for it.” He snorts.
“So why’d you snitch on Hatcher, huh?” I lean forward.
He turns and studies me again.
He’s onto me. He’s gotta be.
“What?” I ask.
He looks straight ahead, golden sun shining over his face, turning his eyes into honey. “For you.”
A painful jolt in my chest couples with relief. “You snitched for me?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean?”
He won’t look at me; he keeps staring out the window. “Well, I didn’t know he saw me. But with Hatcher dealing, I knew if you ever heard about it, you’d sniff it out. They could bury it six feet down, and you’d still manage to find it.”
I smack his arm. “Man, I’m clean. I’ve been clean for three years.”
“Yeah, and I know you miss it every day. That’s pretty clear.”
I scoff and lean back.
“I figured I would stop that shit at the source before they sold to you. Even though I’m not a rat.”
“Come on. I wouldn’t touch that stuff.”
“You’re telling me if you heard he was selling, you wouldn’t even consider it?”
I wait a second too long to respond.
“That’s what I fuckin’ thought. So you’re welcome.”
“Hey, cut it out with the cursing, will ya?” I say, my nerves fried. “We’re in a chapel.”
“What, like you don’t curse?”
“I’m Italian Catholic. I respect God; I respect the Pope. I respect my mother. I don’t curse.”
“Your mother’s dead, remember?”
“Yeah, and she’d roll over in her grave if I had a mouth like yours.”
The pit in my stomach grows. He snitched for me, risked his life to keep me clean, and now I’m his executioner. I guess I’ve made an impression, protecting him up to this point, and he wanted to return the favor. Maybe genuine, misguided affection for me led him here. The guilt eats at me like worms. I care about him, too, and should drop this whole charade.
I never considered a love had formed between us. He’s young, though; he doesn’t know what that means. He cries on my shoulder and flirts without shame. He thinks it’s noble, not stupid, to shield me from myself. And although I know his affection is naive, stemming from feeling safe with me in this terrifying world, my heart aches at the notion that I’m betraying him.
But no matter how it goes down, Hatcher will kill him, and I can cash in on it or not. Even knowing Rusty would die for me, I still crave that warm light, that feeling of sitting in a rocking chair at sunset, my mother wrapping me in a blanket and calling me Louie, and knowing how good it is to be loved. And more than Rusty can give me, more than Ma did, I’ve only ever found that in heroin.
“Sterling the Saint,” Rusty grins, unfazed. “I bet you don’t drink either, right?”
I focus on the wooden cross on the wall. “Sure, I drink.”
“I thought you were clean.”
“I am clean. I’m drugs-clean. Man, what are you interrogating me for?” I shift, ready to leave.
“I’m not. I have some hooch stashed away. Thought maybe we should partake, since I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
He ignores me. “But you said we should have eyes on us, right? It’s in the bathroom.”
“Man, where are we supposed to drink it? The common room?” I spring from the piano stool. This chapel is stifling, and a drink would loosen me up. “If you get thrown in solitary, I’m not joining you.” But I soften when he raises his hand, asking for a lift up, and as he stands, the sun shines over his whole body.
~ ~ ~
Rusty opens a loose tile in one of the grimy shower stalls, revealing a hole in the wall where he’s stored a plastic two-liter of brownish liquid. He pulls it out with gusto and looks back at me, smiling proudly. “A-ha!”
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” I say, stepping into the large stall and pulling the curtain shut, out of view from the cameras. Rusty slides down the wall. “Wait,” I say and take off my khaki shirt, keeping my white undershirt on. “We shouldn’t sit on these floors.” I cover the grubby shower drain.
We sit, backs against the tile, passing the hooch between us. I’m alert, keeping my ears open for a guard or Hatcher’s guys, but as the bottle empties, my mind becomes fuzzy and unfocused. Months worth of tension melt from my muscles.
It’s nice being here with Rusty. I could imagine staying here with him, drinking this disgusting hooch for two, three more hours, and his dirty mouth could ask me as many questions as he wanted, his head resting on my shoulder. Warmth would be in and around me, and I’d have all I need.
Beside me, he’s maudlin. “There’s no chance of me getting out of here, is there?”
I snort. “I don’t know. But guess what? You’ve got me to protect you.” I almost mean it. Protecting him is a habit, and quitting is proving to be difficult.
I look away as his lip quivers. I can’t stand to see him cry again today.
“I never thought I’d die in prison,” he sobs quietly. “I wanted to see my mom again. Redeem myself a little bit, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“She hasn’t visited me once since I was booked. I got thrown in here trying to help the family, help her, and she hates me for it.”
I stroke his thigh, my stomach twisting.
I can’t bring him to that gardening shed.
Twenty years old, and the kid is so loyal. He went to prison for his family, snitched on Hatcher for me. He brings me noodles when I’m sick. He asks me questions about myself for no reason other than wanting to know me better. He goes out of his way to make an aging addict liar feel good.
I could report Hatcher; he’d never know it was me. They’d put him in the Hole again or send him to max if they found his stash. Rusty would be safe and redeem himself with his mother, and I’d have done the right thing. I’d maintain my chance at seeing Heaven. I’d be clean, he’d be in the clear, and we’d carry on having lunch in the cafeteria and flings in the broom closet.
“Did your mother know you ended up here?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“How’d she feel about it?”
I take a swig of the hooch. “It broke her heart.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Sterling.”
“Yeah, well.”
He wipes his face and grabs the bottle. We sit in silence as he drinks. “You know, I’m scared as hell to die.”
“You’re not gonna die, kid.”
“Stop lying. Everybody dies.”
“You’re not gonna die,” I say louder, nauseated.
I can’t report Hatcher; there are too many moving parts. I don’t know who he works with or if the guards would find anything on him. Then I’d have a target on my back, too, and Rusty and I would both be dead.
“Well, if Hatcher was gonna come for either you or me, I don’t regret what I did.”
I don’t answer. I can’t look at him.
“I don’t know what kind of life I’d have outside of prison anyway. I’ve got nothing out there. I’ve got my family, sure. Well, maybe not my mom anymore. But no job, no money. And with a record, I’d just end up back here, probably. You, you’re clean now.”
I stare ahead, his words a haze. “Uh-huh.”
“You came here all strung-out, and now you’re good as new. You’re smart. You’ll get out and have your life back. And if getting eyes on Hatcher would keep you clean, it was worth it.” He leans his head on my shoulder.
Sweat runs down my face. “What time is it?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“It’s getting late.”
“Why, you got somewhere to be?”
“No, just curious. It’s hot in here, no?”
“I’m fine. I feel nice.” He caresses my arm and plays with the shirt in his other hand.
I wipe my forehead, suffocating. Images of Hatcher and his guys garroting Rusty, bashing his head in, stabbing him flash through my mind.
I can’t do it.
He fidgets beside me, shifting his weight like he’s adjusting his pants.
If I told him Hatcher gave me drugs, Rusty would deal with it for me. He could flush it with no hesitation, and it’d be out of sight, out of mind. I’d still crave it, sure, but Rusty--
He sits straighter and turns to me, and time slows to a halt. His eyes darken; his giddy smile sinks into a firm line.
I look at the baggie in his right hand, and my blood turns to ice.
He knows.
“Sterling,” he says quietly. “What’s this?”
I stare at him stupidly, mind racing.
“Sterling,” he says louder. “Where did you get this?”
Unconvincingly, I reply, “What, you think that’s mine?”
“It was in your shirt pocket.” His words are daggers. “Who gave this to you?”
He sees right through me. Shame and sorrow swirl amongst the pitiful excuses I could give him in my drunken state.
He raises his eyebrows. “Was it Hatcher?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“I’ve gotta go.” He stands, pocketing the bag. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Hey!” I protest. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I don’t feel good.” He opens the shower curtain and runs out of the bathroom. I stand to follow him, grabbing my dirty shirt and leaving the hooch, but he’s booking it.
I catch him turning down the hallway into the common room. A few people are playing board games at tables when I walk in, and two guards stand in the corner. I spot Rusty standing against the wall, arms crossed and shoulders tense.
I approach him carefully. “Rusty, give me the bag. You don’t wanna get caught with that.”
“You fucking junkie.” His stare is deadly. “Are you using?”
I fight to keep my voice down. “Kid, I told you I’m clean.”
“Quit calling me that. I risked my ass to keep you away from this shit, and you’ve had it this whole time?”
“Hatcher came to me! I told him I didn’t want it.”
“Then why do you have it?”
I look at the guards; they’re not paying attention to us. My voice drops to a whisper. “You have it, and if you’re caught, you’ll die in the Hole. Seriously, give it to me.” I mean it; I don’t care about the heroin. “I’ve been playing bodyguard all day, and you think I’m double-crossing you?”
“Double-crossing?” He searches my face.
It hits me like a ton of bricks; he didn’t know what I was doing to get the drugs. I can’t backtrack.
“Sterling, why did Hatcher give this to you?”
I look into his eyes—misty, dark, filled with the same terror they had that day we met in the cafeteria. They search for safety, trying to land on someone trustworthy and good, but the innocent kid who saw that in me is crumbling.
I put my cards on the table. “He targeted me. He knows we’re close and said if I could bring you to him, he’d give me more. But I changed my mind. I swear I did. I had a moment of weakness.”
“You’re full of shit,” he spits.
“I swear on my life; on my mother’s life.”
He peers at me but shakes his head. “No. You’re a liar. And so what if they find it on me? You said I should go to the Hole anyway. For protection.”
I throw a Hail Mary. “All right, how about we go to the bathrooms and flush it? You can do it yourself. Would that prove to you I don’t want it anymore?” I need him to forgive me. I won’t have anything if he doesn’t.
“Fuck no. I’m not going anywhere alone with you.”
My heart drops into my stomach.
“How do I know you won’t just kill me and take the bag? Or that Hatcher won’t be waiting there for us? Where were you supposed to lure me, huh?”
“Honest, Rusty, I’d never be able to do it. It’s me. You know me. I’d do anything for you.”
“For me? No. You’d do anything for smack.”
Anger shoots through me like a cannonball. “Like I haven’t given you anything? I’ve been by your side since your first day here. No one forced me to look after you.”
“Don’t act like I’m a fucking leech. I’ve done shit for you, too.”
“What have you done for me?”
His brow furrows. “Kept you alive! And you’d sell me to Hatcher for one hit!”
I shush him, checking if the guards are listening, but they’ve moved into the far corner. “You have no clue what it’s like being an addict, Rusty,” I whisper. “It makes you do things you don’t want to do.”
“Hatcher didn’t ask you to turn tricks, Sterling. He asked you to kill me.”
“I have to look after myself. Either way you slice it, you’re gonna die.”
“So that’s it? I’m a goner, and you’re just gonna pump yourself with poison to ease your guilt?”
“I didn’t ask you to report Hatcher. You made choices, and you’ve gotta live with the consequences. That’s why you’re gonna die. Not me. I had nothing to do with it.”
He tilts his head, becoming small as his shoulders slump in defeat, and regret swells within me.
“You’re right.” As he reaches into his pants, he looks up at me, and I almost flinch at the iciness of his gaze. “I shouldn’t have done anything.” He drops the bag into my shirt pocket. “You’re fucking dirt, Sterling.”
He walks off, leaving my chest tight at the lingering, phantom pressure of his hands and the heroin over my pounding heart.
I have no right to be angry at the lamb running from a wolf. But I’m furious—at myself, at Hatcher for tempting me, even at God for not killing me when I was strung-out.
~ ~ ~
I head to the gardening shed. Pink and purple stretch across the horizon, dark clouds forming ahead. Hatcher’s guys should be nearby, but I don’t care anymore. I have nothing for them, so they won’t have anything for me.
I look at the dirty shirt and baggie in my hands. Stupid junkie move, carrying it around, unable to part with it. But it’s all I’ve got now.
I open the bag, covering it with my hand as I hold it close to my face.
Hatcher will still kill him. But I won’t be pulling the trolley’s lever, so I can’t cop from him, and I’ll need more once it’s in my system. I’m resourceful. I can do all sorts of favors; whatever he needs, I’m willing. As long as it’s not Rusty.
Those wide, hateful eyes had looked at me like I was a stranger.
Heroin and alcohol can be a deadly mix, but I glance around and back up against the shed before tipping the bag vertically to my nose. Snorting isn’t my first choice, but I can’t shoot up around here. I press on my nostril and breathe in.
The dry powder shooting up my nose has an underwhelming effect—mainlining would give a stronger rush—but warmth still spreads through me like a hug. My eyelids droop and muscles loosen as light glows within me.
I put the bag in my pants pocket and watch the sunset, debating going into the shed and working out a deal with Hatcher when I spot Officer Emerson walking into the garden. Dinner is starting, and most of the guards are in the cafeteria, so unless he’s here for a smoke, Hatcher better bounce. Rusty probably snitched again.
Instead of going into the shed, though, Emerson heads toward me.
“Sterling,” he barks, stepping up. “Hey!”
“Huh?” I ask before I can think about my tone.
“Pat-down.” He grabs my arm, and I instinctively flinch.
“Why? What’s going on?” I’m rocking on waves.
He examines my face. “Are you on something?”
I snort. “No.”
“Hold out your arms.”
“What? What’d I do?”
Before I can react, he’s reaching into my pants pocket and pulling out the bag like he knew it was there. My entire body goes numb, ice shooting through the warmth. He looks at the heroin, chuckles, and pulls at my arm, leading me out of the garden. “You’re going to solitary.”
“Yo, that isn’t mine.”
“Possession and use of an illegal substance. That’s a month in the Hole.” He pushes me toward D-Block.
“Did Rusty send you?”
“You better shut your mouth, Sterling. You can go to max, if you’d prefer.”
“Did Rusty tell you? Check the gardening shed! It’s all Hatcher’s! He’s right there!”
“Keep talking. Please, go ahead.”
We enter D-Block’s long, gray corridor leading to the solitary cells. I’ve never been before and don’t know what to expect.
But the second I’m out, I’m going to kill that kid.
~ ~ ~
Time goes by—how much, I have no idea, but it’s long enough for the mix of hooch and heroin to wreak havoc on my body.
The buzz dies, and although it was only a slip, the effects are like I was never clean at all, kicking in with a viciousness I didn’t experience the first time. Forced to pace anxiously, I scream and pound the concrete walls, but neither the cell nor the guards show mercy. My blood sugar crashes, and the nausea kicks in. I vomit until bile scalds my throat, resting my sweaty face against the metal toilet seat. Involuntary tears streak my face.
Time doesn’t exist in the Hole. It’s all fluorescent lights and dark concrete scratched in downward trails. The occasional scream pierces the silence. I don’t have the stomach to eat, and food trays pile on the floor by the door as I writhe in pain.
Laying in the fetal position on the floor, my muscles twitching, I stare at the blurry walls of my cell. Did Rusty send me here out of spite? Or despite my plan, would he still die to keep me clean? I’d almost respect it if I could think past the fire coursing through my blood. If I kill myself in here somehow, he’ll really be sorry.
Without me to protect him, he’s alone. If Hatcher’s still after him, he doesn’t stand a chance.
I hate him, and I’m so scared of what they’ll do to him.
~ ~ ~
I’m dozing when I hear muffled voices in the hallway on the other side of my door. They’re not talking to me, but they’re my only connection to the outside world. I crawl off my cot toward the steel door. It’s better than listening to my own thoughts and the aching of my body.
“—in one of the broom closets.” The voice gets closer and clearer.
“Who?” Another voice and the sound of the rolling food cart.
“Kuribayashi.”
“No way.”
That long last name I could never remember. Rusty. The small food door to my cell opens; an unimpressive tray slips in. I ignore it. My appetite’s gone.
“Suicide?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“He did look rough this past week. Did you see him?”
The cart wheels past my cell, and the voices fade. I crawl to the wall beside me.
My chest tightens, and I cry a pathetic, self-pitying wail that’s lost to silent, timeless space. I cry for Rusty, for Ma, for the heroin, all out of reach now.
I’m left with God, no longer my protector, but my condemner. Rather than warm light, he hovers above in the form of fluorescents, watching, listening, and doing nothing as I suffocate in this hole I have dug.
January 2026
