Easy Money

Easy Money (working title)

Written by: Ella Oharu Transcribed by: Albert Chang

First Entry The doctor's decided to allotted me some time everyday at 1 'clock, right after lunch has been delivered in its flimsy, dirty tin can, for me to keep a journal. He made this decision...Well I don't rightly know when he made it, but he informed me about it, yesterday. I was still feeling funny and hazy. "I won't read it, not thoroughly," he said, with that ingratiating smile I could never keep my eyes off of. "No need to worry, my boy. I Have too many patients to delve into your little mind in detail. I just think it would help you get along in your therapy. It's more for you than for me." After an expectant pause, drowned empty by my accepting silence, the doctor blinked, and took a cigarette out of his breast pocket. The sibilance of the cigarette, sliding out amongst its brethren; the crinkle of the plastic wrapper around the rumpled cigarette box; the click and spark of the lighter as it danced in front of his slightly wet and oily lips, cracked by the dryness of the desert. He had stood there, as if I'd ceased to exist, in my holding cell, blowing smoke out into the quivering dust trapped in the concrete walls. I laid there, motionless, looking at him expectantly. He finished his fag, ground it underneath his heel, turned around and strode off, his shoes clicking down the dark hall, its echoes receding after his shadow. A clang; further footsteps. And i was back, in amongst the golden dust. That was yesterday. Today, as promised, the uniformed guard wordlessly slide a worn, yellow legal pad and dull pencil through the meal slot in exchange for my empty lunch tray. At first I couldn't grasp it all. What the fuck am I supposed to write about anyways? "Anything, anything at all," the doctor had said, almost impatiently. I'm looking around the cell now. I suppose I'll describe it. I've somehow come across the good mathematical fortune to have been assigned to a perfectly square cell. I know this because I've walked along the walls, performed several cartographical experiments since I've arrived, and have concluded that the cell measures about 12 by 12 feet. I arrived at this numerical conclusion through reasoning that each wall measures about twice my height, which was about 6 feet - according to to my internment papers. I haven't measured my actual height myself for a long time; have I ever, actually? Does anybody? The height of my cell also measures about 12 feet - thus giving me the further pleasure of residing within a perfect cube. There's one window - barred - set high up beyond my reach. I sometimes look up and watch the day go by, the sunlight drifting down through the blue square of sky. Iron bars stand opposite that windowed wall. It's dark out there - only another concrete slab, with shitty lightbulbs hanging on either side of my cell beyond my vision. So the only light I get, beyond the dim strains of those two distant bulbs on either side of the barred entrance to my cell, is through the window. Every so often, bootheeled steps ring up and down the corridor, and the dark shadowy figure of the guard marches by. I've never heard him speak. In fact, I don't even know if it's the same guard everytime; it's so dark and shadowy. I don't know how they did it, but the dim darkness out in the corridor seemed almost to be a fourth wall. If I extend my arm between the bars, out into the corridor's space, it's immediately plunged into a dark bath. The only time the guard's footsteps pause is to open the meal slot with a rusty creak. The all-too-familiar tin box materialized out of the darkness. Then, the steps retreat, and return later to collect my box. Once I tried not returning the tray, hoping to incite some response from

the guard. The meal slot creaked open that day - there was a pause - then it clanged shut. After that, there were no meals. But once I set the meal tray back in the slot, the guard quietly took it during this next round, and meals began again. I sleep on a standard-issue prison cot. It's remarkable how distinctive and recognizable those things are. The same dirty, faded brown stripes laid over once-white cotton, grayed over years of criminal sweat pouring out of guilty flesh. A thin blanket - some green color similar to certain species of vomit; a flaccid pillow, yellow with hair-oil, uncovered. My garments are also standard issue faded gray with my identification number emblazoned in large, black block letters over my left breast and back. Recently they've passed a law requiring a certain brand of offender to have this number tattooed across the back of his or her head. I am of this certain brand. This way of identification, they reasoned, is easily concealable, so the offender will not have to endure the shame of public censure and knowledge of his crime - one can simply grow out one's hair, or don a wig. But any relevant institution - an employer, for instance - can easily ascertain whether or not an individual is of "that sort."

Second Entry The doctor arrived himself yesterday morning to collect my first entry. The booted heels of the guard paused outside my door; the tumblers clicked and the doctor stepped in out of the darkness, his white coat suddenly shining blindingly in my cell. He asked me for my entry; scanned over it quickly, muttering, "Good...good...that's fine. Very fine." He smiled at me after his cursory inspection, and pocketed the yellow sheets. Then he stepped backwards, returning into the darkness of the corridor, and I heard that distinctive clang of the heavy lock and bolt, consummating my imprisonment once again. Two set of footsteps receding - the doctor's, sounding more casual and undisciplined than the methodical, mechanical clicks of the guard's. Then, a return to silence. Later on, today, the same procedure - this legal pad in exchange for my emptied tray. I suppose I'm allowed the luxury of writing whenever and however long I please, since I have all day and night until collection. I suppose I'll describe how I came to this place, and what my life was like before. I'm not sure if anybody ever bothers with thoughts on where indicted criminals are sent off to. I know I never did - certainly not deeply enough to inquire into it. But I found out, after my trial, that out in the deserts beyond the Fringe of the Sprawl, gigantic prison complexes are maintained. Each unit is its own separate independent world, with its own bureaucracy, its own laws, its own throbbing life. I recall, very clearly, being struck by how it all seemed to be as a hive of ants or bees, in terms of the neat, honeycombed partition of cells (of which I now reside in one), as well as the structured, disciplined behavior of the workers - the guards, doctors, administrative staff. I have heard of there being a warden, or a council of individuals that essentially function as a warden; I have also heard of there being other offices being held by various other unknown bureaucratic figures. There must be, but I have never myself seen them in person. When I was processed, I saw only the doctors and guards, and the miscellaneous staff and prison workers, who function like machines, each swiftly and laconically firing questions and automatically jotting down my responses. "Measles? Mumps? HIV? ..." there was a whole list of diseases. "Have you ever had, or have had an inclination toward, homosexual practices?" "What is your exact gender?" A whole host of questions aimed at partitioning us into the proper cell blocks. There were many more details ("Are you a drug addict?" "Are you inclined towards violence?" "Are you a vegetarian?") but I believe I've succeeded, at least in feeling, in demonstrating my impression of the prison I have been assigned to. If the prison seemed as a beehive to me, the place I'd come from - that yawning concrete slab of electric desolation called the Sprawl - can only be compared to a cockroach's nest. I'd been born there, and had only been beyond the border of the Fringes twice in my life - this sojourn being the second. The first time had been in my childhood, right before my father disappeared. I've heard of other places in the world similar to the Sprawl - huge tracts of technological colonization, infested with humans. If so, I need not describe it in too much detail. I'm sure it's the same all over - towering silicon towers, latticed with concrete and steel skeletons; the constant construction of new buildings to replace old dilapidated ones no longer reparable; the swarm of men and women, day and night, throbbing flesh lit underneath flashing bulbs of neon reds, greens, yellows...; the hiss and screech of the metros screaming by; the countless spirals and bridges criss-crossing the space above one's head, between the buildings, like mechanical spiderwebs; the buildings themselves coalescing into the event horizon that receded into the smoggy distance of eyesight. In a place like that, anything is possible, anything can happen, and everything changes a man. The social structure a place like that naturally spawns (or was it the social structure that spawned such a place?) is rift with holes and dead-ends. The spew of bureaucratic excrement provides enough fodder for parasites such as myself to feed off of and eke out survival...or some semblance of it.

I believe every society has a need for vermin such as myself. I made my living selling drugs to the needy denizens of the Sprawl. All sorts of drugs - recreational drugs for a good party time, pharmaceutical drugs for general physical and chemical maintenance, gastronomical drugs to instigate bowel movement, olfactorial drugs to block out the unpleasant stench of too many humans...all kinds. These days, science and technology have produced methods of simulating just about any sort of electrical and chemical response, and thereby experience, in a human mind. I considered my work a philanthropical one. Oftentimes, people couldn't afford these meds through legal channels - bureaucratic tariffs and taxes and policies inflated the prices so only the richest could afford to buy them with any regularity. The Sprawl was too big to be managed in any united coherent or efficient fashion by the authorities - they knew this and we knew this. So my vocation was a common one. We were generally left alone by the police, as long as we provided a little cheddar to grease the wheels. And even then, it wasn't any big deal - what drove the Sprawl was economy economy economy, and my profession was a vital part of that. I believe the authorities have studied and developed an anthropolical theory of human society, realizing that these things are almost necessary; at the very least, people like me are natural and organic evolutions of a human society. I knew a whole host of suppliers - chemists who brewed homemad versions of the meds (veritable independent pharmaceutical companies unto themselves, really); longshoremen who would sticky finger some legit product, provided they were amply paid for their trouble; other dealers who sold in bulk; a few doctors who would prescribe a few of the higher end pharms for me...all sorts. I made a decent enough living to get along.

Entry the 3rd When the doctor left earlier today with my last entry, I suddenly grew worried that my sentence would be increased, given what I revealed about my profession. You see, though I operated in the trade of illegal trafficking, I am not here because of it. It's rare, as I've mentioned, for someone to get locked up for drugs - the use or sale of. It happens too frequently; too many citizens participate, and the authorities have enough to keep them busy. No, I'm here because I've committed what is probably the greatest crime - above murder, even - in teh Sprawl: currency forgery. When you fuck with the economy in that fundamental manner (after all, currency is the basic building block of the economy; specious reproduction of such would eventually lead to the downfall of the economic system as established); well - then there's no end to the wrath the government can lay upon your head. Money talks, even if it uses dirty words now and then, or often. And to speak falsely is the greatest sin of all. I was an unwitting accomplice to currency forgery. I never would have knowingly fucked with something so risky. No, it was an unfortunate stroke of luck that led me to where I am now - alone in a cell, high up in the desert wind, miles from any decent civilization, with only a little square patch of blue and black sky as a my sole companion. Yes, it was quite a misfortune that befell me that day, so long ago... But I do'nt feel much like talking about those things right now.

Entry the 4th The doctor cocked an eyebrow, after browsing my prevoius entry. "Why so short?" he mused, as if to himself. He rapped the tip of his pen to his thick, oily lips - such a stark contrast to his sallow, almost translucent skin - before giving a mental shrug and pocketing the yellow sheet. He melted back into the corridor's darkness, before the familiar clang of the lock turning signalled the end of what is quickly becoming a ritual an almost religious one, really, with its regularity and paucity of speech. In fact, this whole sojourn in solitary confinement is akin to a sort of enforced prayer or meditation. And, admittedly, not an altogether unpleasant one. It's strange what can happen to a man when he is kept in quiet solitude for hours and days on end. Left alone, my mind has become detached from all things beyond these walls. Strange sounds and images surface in a mind existing in that state. Even so - I have to wonder what this is all for, this journal keeping, these mysterious visits from the doctor. When I came in, I was sentenced to rot in amongst the masses of other prisoners. I can now vividly recall the first night here. The guards are especially strict about silence and discipline; any extraneous noise is swiftly and severely punished. How the punishment is executed, I do not know. I speak now of the everyday punishments, not an extended one such as mine. I witnessed, that first night, a prisoner suddenly cry out, moaning and yelling franctically into the murky darkness floating inside the greater interior prison walls. Very swiftly, very calmly - chillingly so - a set of boot heels rapped across the metal floor of the general assembly area, climbed up the stairs without breaking rhythm, until they paused - before the offender's cell, I assume. A door clanged open - the offender blubbered and beseeched the shadowy figure of the guard for clemency, for succor, merciful succor. I heard, in the darkness, a shriek from the prisoner, and the sound of his body being dragged along the metal grating of the rampart his cell block was located on - thump thump thump down the stairs - and then, that sorry sack of flesh sliding across the dull gleam of the main ground floor. He had been yelling and struggling all the while, from the sounds of it, but those horrible boot heels kept rapping along steadily, inexorably, as if conducted by some automated, mechanical metronome, beating inside the iron chambers of the guard's heart. A loud clang - and silence cut across the night once more. The prisoner's cries were gone, eaten up by the horrific silence, as if the darkness itself were some beast lurking about outside the bars of our cells. I had not stirred from my bed, had only listened quietly, transfixed. The sensation, after the prisoner had been taken away, was not even as if the cries had never exited - nor was it as if the cried had died out, the phantoms of its shadows echoing away. No, it was somethign in-between, as if the beast of the night had sucked it dry, and was now smiling in satisfaction, picking its teeth in the blackness, as we - the other prisoners - could only look on at the clean, bleached bones of those cries. The next day, the offender was returned to his cell. Nobody saw this happen - we had returned from exercises to find his cell door shut, the prisoner laid up on his bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling. His cellmate looked shaken, entering their cell. Nobody ever found out what had happened to the offender, the night he was taken away. All we know was that that particular prisoner never spoke or broke any rule again.

Pentagonal Entry Before I came to this place, in my old life, I had a woman. The image of her face floated up at me just now. This subject, too, will help explain why I was exiled from the main prison into solitary confinement. My life, back in the Sprawl, was not an unhappy one. Her name was Beatrix; she was a dope addict, just as I was an gamma-head. Recently, they've developed a way of electrically manipulating the levels of certain chemicals in the brain, thereby producing a sort of custom high of all gradients. It's an expensive way to get off - to begin with, one has to pay for a jack to be installed in the back of one's skull. Because I'd dealt with so many substances over the yeras, I could no longer get off on any of them in any satisfying way - so I decided to save up and get the jack installed. It was around that time that I met Beatrix. I could immediately tell she wasn't a typical dope addict. There are two stages in a dope addict - neophytes who are still fat and healthy, and strung out. That shit always made me sick. I tried it a few times, for reserach purposes. It was a gas, but after that I stopped, for the dual reasons of waiting for my E-jack installed, and to avoid fuckin' up and getting strung out. Beatrix...she wasn't a decrepit junkie, but she sure as hell wasn't a newbie. She was too cool for that. She had a good job as some rich doctor's assistant, and shot up in minute, controlled amounts. This, by itself, was an anamoly. I doubt she even did enough to really get high - I think she just liked shooting shit up, and having that steady stream of dop coursing through her blood vessels. I dug that though: she was in control of her habit, as in control as any junkie could be. I met her through a friend; she was trying to score some, since her regular guy had just gone dry. I usually carry decent slag, but not enough to be anybody's steady - like I said, I don't fuck with it too much. I usualyl like trading in pharmaceutical meds, actual pills and such. Customers in that market are generally more reliable and pay their tabs. My theory is because - similar to Beatrix, actually - meds are reliable since they're more or less standardized in the industry, and measured out within precise guidelines...so most users incorporate them as a regular part of their lifestyle; like having a fucking cup of coffee or a cigarette or something. My sources for meds are also pretty steady, which means I don't have to constantly scrounge around for merchandise. When I first met Beatrix, I recall thinking that she looked unusually healthy for a junkie I knew she was a junkie 'cause she was skinny as hell, with those skeletal cheekbones and large, protruding eyes. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white; her icy green eyes stared unblinkingly at me, and were focused, clear, attentive - other traits not normally found in your run-of-the-mill junkie. She was also remarkably relaxed and compoxed, not twitchy or nervous. I was impressed. Plus she had mad style - webbed corset with hot pink overlay; gilded leather pants that ran down to ankle-high boots with zippers along the inlays, buckles undone. I'd just gotten my jack installed two days previous, and hadn't jacked on yet. I was headed out to a spot that night to jack on and spend the night electrified. This deal was to be a real quickie. Our mutual friend, some lowlife named Bruno, seemed to be anxious to score and head out with Beatrix; probably hoping to shoot up and have some pussy for dessert. Beatrix was real cool about it though, as if she knew his intentions. We met outside the Plasma Bar, out in the NIkkatsu Sector. It was a well-known joint for a jolt, and a good spot for my first time. Jolt joints ran the gamut of grades, like everything else, all depending on one's price range and desires. I picked the spot 'cause it let guests stay overnight in the 'cubes, and had all the accoutrements of a small inn: a decent resaturant, clean bedding, friendly employees. The only thing they wouldn't stand for was fucking - not that anybody could really fuck when jacked on, in those little 'cubes. I stood outside smoking a fag; the tendrils of smoke lit up blue and green, alternating in

the glow of the myrid of lights all around. Out of the crowd, Bruno appeared, followed by a willowy, graceful figure - "Beatrix, this is the guy," Bruno coughed. She looked at me, appraising my grey vest, zipped up to the collar, and loose tattered jeans. I ground my cig out beneath the heel of my faded adidas sneakers, and pulled up my collar. "Let's go inside," I said. We went in and I asked for a room. "For all three of you?" the girl behind the counter raised a heavily-made up eyebrow mockingly. Heavy electronic music throbbed in the background; neon lights flickered over exposed flesh, attached to waitresses serving customers. "Nah, one for myself later...for now lemme get a table. I gotta grub before turning on, alrite jack?" She smiled saardonically. "Right this way, monsieur." She led us to a table, swaying her hips - more than needed, I though. We sat down, and I glanced over the menu. Bruno looked anxious to score and get the fuck out. Fuckin' junkie, I though. Beatrix sat there coolly; she put on some heavy shades. "The lights bother me," she said in an offhand manner, to no one in particular. Those were the first words she'd said all night. She leaned back and crossed her arms, falling into what seemed to be deep contemplation. I browsed through the menu and order shrimp noodles. "Want anything?" I looked at both of them politely. Bruno jerked his head - No. Beatrix shook her head slightly. I leaned forward after the waitress left. "So what'll it be tonight, Bruno ol' boy?" "Gimme...I mean us...your best shit. 500 milligrams." I lifted an eyebrow. "Hm...somebody's partying tonight." I fished out two sacks of dope and laid it on the table. "That'sll be 900 marks, old friend." Bruno stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out some dirty credit chips before tossing them onto the table. Beatrix stirred from her reverie and placed 450 worth of chips in a neat stack in front of her, and pushed them forward deliberately. I quickly pocketed the dough. My noodles came, along with a beer I'd ordered. "Well then...to your combined health. Have fun." I lifted my glass. Bruno slid out, having pocketed his half of the dope. He looked at the girl. "Hey babe, you comin'?" His voice had suddenly taken on an unctuous, confident tone. Beatrix had not moved. She ignored Bruno; leaned forward, covered her dope with the palm of her right hand, and lowered her sunglasses. Two icy green pupils bore into me like glass. "You're jackin' on tonight, huh? Mind if I stay and hang out?" Bruno looked shocked for a brief moment; then his ugly face turned even uglier. "Heeyyyy...!!" his hand jerked forward to grab her arm. "I though we were supposed to hang out tonight baby...get down and party, y'know?" Beatrix coolly shook him off, and turned to him. "All I asked was if you were gonna score, and you said Yeah. I didn't say anything about after. We agreed to go in on a nickel, so there you go. You got your junk,l now beat it." For a brief moment I felt the tension ready to explode into violence on Bruno's part. My hand fingered the hilt of the knife I had in my pocket. But Bruno proved himself to be the coward he really was, and simply turned around, stalked off, but not before throwing a "dirty whore!" over his shoulder. Beatrix leaned back, smirked, and took her glasses off. "Well, can I?" I just looked at her. I laughed. "Yeah, man."

6th Entry The Sprawl is a cesspool of human carrion, societal excrement.At the top dweel the rich and bourgie - because of the sky bridges connected the top layers of buildings, the Sprawl has become like an intricate network of social division. It's rare for the rich to come down to the ground level, except in the Coruscant Sector, and the areas surrounding it. That's the center of the Sprawl, near the main governmental buildings. From this nexus, out until the Fringe, the sectors grow rougher and sleazier...but it's really not that bad. Policemen are numerous; it's a common vocation for most folk who aren't rich and want a steady, realiable job. Plus, in a city as large as the Sprawl, there are enough meatheads who actually want to be policement to fill the uniformed ranks. I lived in the Berlin Sector, which was inhabited by lower-middle class merchants and a smattering of druggies. I liked my neighborhood - not rough enough to be really dangerous, but it had enough character so I wouldn't feel out of place, doing what I did. I'd feel too scummy if I lived in a neighborhood like the Afro-Polynesian, or Murray's Street. I dealt to a lot of my neighbors, and also to a lot of lawyers and accountants up in the East End Sector, which was the next sector over. I also lived close enough to the Nikkatsu Sector for convenience's sake - that's where alotta red-light stuff goes on, pleasure quarters, jolt joints, your traditional dives, hole-in-the-wall cafes and restaurants, hourly motels, the occasional dope house. One thing I'll say about the Sprawl - it was always, including the Coruscant Sector, moving, throbbing, organically breathing, with streams of people and chatter, with the all sorts of smells and languages and colors. I really dug it. I didn't realize how much so, until I was flying out of the Fringes, and across the hot desert sands that stretched interminably in all directions. I remember, vividly, looking back out the window of the prison shuttle, and seeing the dark cloud of the Sprawl dwindle behind me in the distance; it was soon swallowed up by the bleached desert horizon and sparkling blue sky. You never see blue sky in the Sprawl, unless you live up top. It was all a stark contrast to the dull gleam of the prison. Here, everything is orderly and spotlessly clean. When I was amongst the rest of the prison population, we were required to do chores as part of our rehabilitation. Nbody dared to slack off - any prisoner with a rebellious streak soon learned the foolishness of his way, through firsthand experience, or by observing the punishment meted out to the others. Because the prison has been constructed in the middle of the desrt, a lot of sand and dust would float in. There was nothing to be done about that, but it certainly provided us all with plenty to do. Just maintaining any semblance of cleanliness was a full-time job in itself. Perhaps that was one of the factors the powers that be considered, when choosing the prison's location. I've thought, sometimes, that the prison surely was Hell, and our lot had been condemned to that of Sisyphus'. Despite our enforced cleanliness, every single prison still stank, as if rotting from the inside out. I heard somebody say once that it was because of the dust mites and other microscopic organisms in the desert winds that burrowed themselves into our clothes and our pores. Our cells housed two prisoners each. My first cellmate had what I consider to be the most God-awful feet and yellowest toes, nails and teeth, I'd ever seen. I doubt I can properly describe how horrific it was to be locke dup in a cell with a man like that. He had a disgusting habit of picking his feet, really digging underneath the nails and between the toes, his bare stinking foot inches from his delighted face. He used to do this after our showertime, because "that's when the toe's the softest and easiest to clean. It's real fresh then!" he would announce haipply, with a smile bespeckled with dull yellow teeth. I made no response; only turned on my side, away from the foul creature. He was a balidng man, and was in for the rape and murder of a ten-year-old girl: "Clara," he sighed. "Uv all de girls Ah've 'ad" - he would always refer to these foul acts as "'avin" the girl...a term I doubt I'll ever use again - "she wuz de sweetest and prettiest litto thang. Dainty litto feet too...after Ah 'ad 'er, Ah knocked 'er out an' choode dose precious litto toes off. Got meself off one mo' time - roight all over 'er!" He had a sick way of laughing. I wanted him to shut up, but he would go on, without noticing.

Sometimes, the vile thing would even get misty-eyed, reminiscing on his horrible crimes. "When dey caught me, Ah just been finished wit 'avin 'her again, from de back. She wuz ded by den. She awoke durin' de toe-chewin', and Ah 'ad ta strangle 'er, strangle 'er real good. Aye, but Ah got greedy...shouldnta 'ad her again. Couldn't resist, 'dough....'er arse looked so sweet and plump, nigh on loike a perfect fuzzy peach! Got greedy, Ah dids," he said ruefully. Luckily, this cockroach of a man was sentenced to death, and I was freed from his noxious presence after only a few months. But I can say, without equivocation, that those were th most miserable months of my entire existence. The guards came on and led him off one morning - his execution day, I believe. He paused at the doorway to our cell, turned around and winked at me, "Guess Ah'm leavin' dis hell now pardner...Ah'm movin' onto de next place, amigo. Remember ta take care uv yo' litto feetsies!" He cackled with maniacal glee, which he (thankfully) choked on as he was interuppted by a swift wordless blow to his bare, liver-spotted head by one of the guards. They dragged him off semi-conscious. I never saw him again, and was assigned a new cellmate later that afternoon.

7th Entry I haven't written for a few days. The doctor came, everyday, and wordlessly accepted the blank pages I'd been assigend the day before. What's his game? Yesterday, he took the plages, looked them over as before - as if they had words on them - smiled, pocketed the pages - all as before - lit a cigarette; and looked at me, still smililng, his eyes crinkled and shining in general mirth. I had a sudden desire for great violence, and wanted to inflict some terrible wound upon him, to knock those thick black plastic frames off his suddenly smug face. He must have known this because he suddenly burst out laughing, expelling a diaphanous miasma of nicotonic smoke into the already stale air of my cell. He kept laughing his ass off, as if he's heard some cosmic joke of truth, as he fell back into the corridor's black void, until I could only hear its fading knell, punctuated by the heavy ring of the guard's boots. I felt physically ill and turned over onto my right side, away from the corridor; my bed creaked slightly, mockingly, as if it too shared that madcape glee. A voice sneered out of the scattered silence that had followed this episode: "Tired of reminiscing are we, pretty one? Memories...memories..." the voice died out with those echos, until the cell reached the usual torpid standstill. I close dmy eyes; my heart ached, suddenly, in pain. My meal came, along with the - by now - usual yellow legal pad. I stirred not from my position, and remained still for a few hours. They guard never came back to collect my meal tray - strange...strange...I felt strangely. Unknown phnatoms whirled about my heavy head; my body felt light, airborne by this suddenly new ether tumbling through my veins. I coughed; shifted around into a more comfortable position, crossed my arms - all accompanied by an orchestra of squeaks and rust whistles. A blue light came on behind my eyelids, opened through a memory, an image... I was jacked, reclining in the small cubicle of some motel in the past. Beatrix laid next to me, her naked skin softly illuminated by the electric blue light of the 'cube. Her body cradeled in the halo of mine, her head nodding off onto my shoulder. she opened her eyes briefly and looked into mine - she smiled. No words, no words. My ears were ringing from the electrons being forced into my cerebral cortex. She shifted closer - her arms folded up against her chest, two parallel waves of soft blue flesh. Her eyes closed. Her kit was on the floor behind her, neatly folded and tucked beneath her knapsack. I felt something stir - a piece of emotional driftwood, gleaming white in the sun, bleached - floating out of the crackling static tides of the electricity pumping, humming steadily in my skull, which shivered and hummed along. I reached over and turned the jack off with a click. The familiar disappointing brain drain followed. I felt my normal brainwaves descend like dull nuclear fallout, scattering over the landscape of my mind. But...another thing swelled inside of me, an effortless ballon of something I could only identify as...yes, I do believe it was love, wasn't it? I reached out with my finger and gently traced the outline of Beatrix's back; she smiled behind closed eyelids, and a sigh murmured its way out her lips. I closed my eyes and felt my soul detach itself, drifting out into some unknown oneiric space - empty, but full with silence. Who was it that said the loudest sound of all is silence? I suddenly understood that, then. I felt the gentle throb of her echo out in that darkness, next to mine. It beat on steadily - honestly, intimately. Memories...memories...they really don't live as people do, do they? They always seem to remember you, even as we lurch forward, unsteadily even, stumbling off into the next one.

#8 It's been some weeks since I wrote. The doctor comes everyday and takes the blank pages with a smile. I've felt a sudden despair. I'm rotting way from the inside - the cadaver of the past lies next to me, always, flashing its fleshy smile at me. Where there are teeth - I see only black stumps stained with nicotine. In the dark recesses of its eyes I see many things. Beatrix's sad smile - the last time I saw her, right after my trial ended. With its verdict of guilty. She passed me a note: "I'm dying tonight after they take you away, my love. Intentional suicide. Please forgive me. xoxo -B." I wasn't able to read the noteuntil I was aboard the prison shuttle, headed out across the desert. It's amazing how efficient they are at that - I was shoved aboard the shuttle mere minutes after my trial ended. I stared at the note without cmoprehension. Later, in prison, I got a letter - "Beatrix dead. -Bruno." I still could not register. That evening, during the communal dinner, while everybody quietly ate as usual - eyes riveted to their meals - I stood up. My food had laid there, untouched A guard immediately came over I calmly regarded his approaching figure, with its stoic visage I did not know what I meant by standing up, until he came near I leapt at him He was hospitalized - the doctor told me, later, that he had died that night I'd torned his throat out - literally. I had not even known that was possible They beat me, of course They dragged me - me, still clutching the twitching larynx and bleeding esophagus in my hands; me, still clad in my bloody, standard-issue prison garb - off, across the floor of the dining hall The prisoners stared at me As far as I know nobody had ever hurt a guard One prisoner stood up Then another Then in waves everybody stood up in silence and stared There was something in their eyes then The guards did not move to apprehend additional offenders The blinding lights of the dining hall stared into my eyes I shut my eyelids out All I could see was a soft blue light and somebody's laughing face i heard the door of my apartment being blown open policmen streamed in beatrix's scream i stood up before a descending policeman's blackjack darkness fell over me and i woke up in a holding cell at the police station my hands wrapped behind me in handcuffs caked with blood BLOOD of the dark wet sort streaming over my hands and legs trickling down into my socks and shoes they took me to a large empty room the bloody stumps of flesh were gone from my hands only the blood the drying caking blood remained on my skin and garments they strapped me in a standing position to a thick wooden pole and left me there the light of the room was turned off delirious i was forced to stand there for...how long? how long? i can't say eventually somebody came - the doctor he smiled behind those plastic frames and gave me shots...i put up no struggle...one day I woke up in this cell the doctor appeared he smiled he told me to "take these pills" his hand unfolded to reveal a small white thing...i pretended to take it and the one the next day and the day after that...i saved the pills up one day i took them all at once - days, weeks worth of pills! i had a seizure in a few minutes...they managed to rescue me...i woke up here in this cell again feeling empty and dazed the doctor visited me in this cell, smiling - told me to keep a journal. and so I did. but now, now..i see now what this is, yes, I see it all clearly now i see this game, why i was told to write and write and write and remember and remember and remember. This is my redemption i've been given a choice the doctor, the guard - they must be angels, i know it, the doctor's coat always shines so brilliantly i've never seen the guard, only heard him, felt him...they didn't save me. i died. i died out there in the desert, down there in that cell i measured to be a cube with its blue square that turned black and blue again where the stars sometimes shone and i would wake up and cry cry cry because memories would haunt me. i died, yes i'm sure of it once i saw an ant crawling along the wall when i woke up it was right in front of my eyes i stared at it and began to cry with heaving sobs i realized that this ant this insignificant creature could crawl up and out of the window and fly away if it wanted to if it had wings but even without wings it didnt matter because it could just keep crawling crawling crawling out across the desert and back into the sprawl if there ever was a sprawl and it could go out and sleep and smile and wake up next to his woman and continue to cease and desist existing because it was happy but never realized it and it had to go off and do something foolish that lead to its death, to this cell where it was crawling now to die

i'm waiting to enter heaven. but first...first i must be pure must expunge all my previous sins. thus - these entries, yes my mind was let loose to wander freely and here i am there is nothing left now i'm at the crossroads to choose eternal damnation in this cell with its one patch of blue and its one wall of darkness out in the cooridor i haven't seen outside for so long i nkow it i can feel it - tomorrow the doctor will come and smile that smile and stuff his delicate hands into his pocket and say - "well?" - "well?"...i haven't slept for days for fear of dreams of reminisce i can't think any longer i haven't eaten i refuse to touch the food here - it's another test another temptation for sin what will i choose? i don't even know i am sure that leaving here will only be another joruney another string of tests for what? the promise of heaven? shall i cultivate my own private salvation here, alone, all alone in the desert or shall i take my chances out there? i won't know until it comes it comes i hear the footsteps i feel fate's breath on my neck i hear her hissing softly dangling my life's thread stroking it ready to split it as those steps approach in the dim darkness the door's open the doctor steps in as i thought! he sees my whirling mind, spinning, chaotic, he

End.