Two months into my sentence, I learn that control is survival.
The kid who cries gets targeted, the kid who fights back too hard gets solitary, the kid who finds the middle ground survives.
I learn to lock down my reactions, to keep my face blank, to never show fear or anger or anything that can be used against me.
I learn to fight when I have to but stop before it goes too far.
I learn to be invisible when possible and terrifying when necessary.
I learn to survive.
But surviving means doing things I swore I'd never do.
There's a kid named Danny. He's fourteen and small, and everyone can smell the fear on him.
I'm in the cafeteria when I see Marcus corner him. Danny says he doesn't have commissary money.
Marcus hits him anyway, right there where everyone can see.
Danny goes down and Marcus keeps hitting him. His fist makes a wet sound against Danny's face.
I'm ten feet away and I have a choice.
Step in or let it happen.
If I step in I make an enemy, if I let it happen I'm no better than Marcus.
I stand up.
The guard's already moving but I get there first. I grab Marcus by the back of his shirt and pull him off.
"That's enough," I say.
Marcus spins and swings at me. I block it and hit him back.
His nose breaks again. I broke it the first time and now I'm breaking it again.
There's something satisfying about the sound and that satisfaction makes me sick.
I should stop but I don't. I keep hitting him because the violence feels good.
Someone pulls me off and I'm in solitary again—another three days alone with what I've done.
This time, I don't make promises. This time, I just sit with the truth.
I like the violence.
Not all of it, not the fear or the guilt, but the moment of impact, the way it makes everything simple.
Hit or get hit, hurt or be hurt.
It's clean in a way nothing else in here is.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
The garage door opens and Tank walks in. He sees me gripping the workbench and he stops.
"You good?" he asks.