articleone : arnie
Arnie lay back on mattress, shivering slightly. A subtle breeze sifted around his body. The fine hair across his arms arched away from the skin. Tiny goosepimples scattered their way up his shoulder, across his back, down his legs. His one warmth was his cigarette, the smoke that filled his lungs and calmed his nerves.
Arnie tried to ignore his mind, but the thoughts persisted. It had been stupid arguing. It had been stupid defending. It had been stupid retaliating. He wasn't that type. He wasn't that man. Now it didn't matter.
Arnie drew another reassuring breath of nicotine, and stared at the ceiling, watching the smoke collect, drift across the roof and escape. He was slowly running out of cigarette. He pictured the hairy man who'd pushed him against the wall. He remembered scratching the man's face, tearing at his eyes. He remembered the guards finally, thankfully, appearing.
Arnie felt the heat of the glistening head draw closer to his stained fingers. Taking the butt one last time to his lips, he sucked deeply, filling his lungs with the inky smoke, then flicked the butt through the cell bars in disgust.
Arnie sat staring at his food. It looked as lifeless as the stainless steel tray that held it. A stainless steel tray could do a lot of damage, he thought nervously. If you used it right. If you had a strong enough grip. If you caught your opponent off guard.
Arnie peered around at his fellow inmates. No one was looking at him. No one had noticed him. Each burrowed into the grey stew on their own stainless steel trays. Each wolfed the pale muck down, mindless of the other dogs.
Arnie stared at the tray, sniffed at the food. He didn't think he could stomach any more of the gruel. He ran a finger through it, then licked off the disgusting slop. Slowly he spat it back out onto the tray, then licked his finger clean again. Spit, clean, spit, clean, until the last of the muck had gone.
Arnie traced his fingers along the metal moulding around the base of the tray. If felt solid, he thought. Like a shield. You could use a tray as a weapon, or a shield. You could use it to beat a man to death, or ward off blows. It could be your shining cross, or a neck-breaking trap.
Arnie needed another razor. He was growing too much hair. Not hair, but a fine fur. A pelt. He was growing a pelt, and needed another razor. He wasn't worried. It didn't bother him. Waiting for the inevitable, he had lost interest in his appearance. Though the whiskers grew, he paid no attention.
Arnie hung about the courtyard doors. He thought about lurking near the corner, but there would be nowhere to run. Or near the side wall. The side wall had it's advantages. You could move along the wall and get back to the guard tower. But there would be no help there. You couldn't climb up it, or get around it. Just stand under it and wait. Or from the side wall you could try to escape through the sports cages. But you might also be caught inside one, boxed in by wire, caged by the hounds.
Arnie stayed near the courtyard doors. They were the safest. You could get inside, back to the cell. Or you could race into the open, where everything could be seen. You were safe in the open. Everyone knew that.
Arnie watched the inmates playing ball. Like children, kicking round a rotting soccer ball, playing in the dust, pushing, shoving, kicking. Ignoring him. No one looked in his direction. No one moved towards the courtyard doors. No one shouted for him to join in, or to stop the ball as it headed past. No one said a word.
Arnie needed new pants. His old ones were too long, too wide. They didn't fit any more. He wasn't worried. He hadn't eaten much for the past few days. He didn't go much to the cafeteria. Eating didn't appeal. He had lost his appetite. Food kept you whole, he thought. That wouldn't be the case for long. Eating didn't matter.
Arnie sat quietly in the prison library. He had chosen carefully. A wooden desk, facing towards the door. A large book, easy to hold in the hand, but heavy, thick. A silent room, so he could hear someone coming. Could watch them as they came in. Could close his book carefully, hold it in both hands, and prepare for the inevitable.
Arnie stared blankly at the pages of text before him. He wasn't concentrating on the words. He didn't care for what they had to say. Instead, he thought. Thought about the walls around him. Thought about the men who moved about the corridors, who shut themselves in their cages, who locked themselves inside, then locked their selves inside.
Arnie stared down at the book. A dictionary. He was reading a dictionary. He picked a random word, but the word made no sense. The words made no sense. They were just jumbled, random letters. He tried to read it, but failed, again, again. He slowly closed the book, turned away, and sighed.
Arnie heard the footsteps approaching. There was little he could do, but stand and wait. He listened as they grew louder, more defined. He resigned himself to the inevitable, and turned his back. He moved the tap a little, and the water drizzling upon his head changed from warm to hot. He disliked the water.
Arnie's nails needed cutting. The cuticles had grown long and jagged. Dirt collected underneath, blackening his fingertips. His jaw ached, his bones ached, his muscles ached. Noises were everywhere, hurting his ears. His skin was sensitive to touch. The light hurt his eyes. He wanted to wash away the pain, but he also wanted to avoid the showers.
Arnie bowed his head into the stream, closed his eyes. The sharp footsteps had gone. He listened for anything, any sign that someone was entering the showers. He felt the warmth of the water trickle across his shoulders. He smelt the stale stink of sweat and shit. He heard the sound of pissing somewhere; then he heard nothing.
Arnie waited for the blow. Eventually, he turned off the taps, and dried himself. He walked back to his cell, a bundle of dirtied clothes tucked under his arm. He arrived at his cell, placing the clothes in the canvas bag that lay outside his cell. He sat down on his bed. He wasn't worried. So he waited, and waited.
Arnie woke up. It was night, but he could see clearly through the bard of his cell across the way to the cell opposite. He sat up, but didn't feel right. I should be taller, he thought. The floor seems too near. The bed too far from the ground. Something is wrong, he thought, the cell doesn't feel right.
Arnie leapt off the bed, landing on cushioned claws. He didn't realise at first what he'd done, and stood, shocked, back arched, fur on end. He hissed a little, then calmed down. As his fur settled, he padded towards the cell door. The bars were very far apart, he thought, I could just slip through.
Arnie ran his face along a bar, rubbing his whiskers against the cool metal. He circled in and out of the cell a couple of times, then padded his way out the cell and down the corridor.
Arnie headed towards to yard. If I can get outside, he thought, I can run away. He didn't question what had happened. He could see an opening for escape, and didn't want to risk it in hesitation. He had waited for so long for the inevitable, but something different had happened. There was no retribution; there may be escape.
Arnie crept softly across the cold metal floors towards the courtyard doors. They were a little ajar. Perfect for a cat-body to slip through. He was pleased. He twitched his whiskers to show his pleasure. He was almost out the door. He was dying for a cigarette.
Arnie pushed the human thoughts aside. Being a cat is good, he decided. He pushed his way through the gap between the doors as his almond pupils grew in the night shadows. He slipped down the stairs and raced across the courtyards. He reached the far wall, then realised he couldn't jump it.
Arnie crept along the far wall for the side wall of the courtyard. He headed for the guard tower. He had a plan, a small one, a lucky plan. He was going to climb the guard tower, then jump over the wall, then escape. He was going to live another eight lives outside the prison grounds.
Arnie sauntered through the shadows, his eyes scanning the wall for the perfect place to cross. His whiskers brushed against the wall, making sure he didn't stray from the cool brickwork. His ears listened in anticipation for the bells that would surely start when he was discovered missing.
Arnie smelt something. Something he was not familiar with. It smelt like the canteen. It smelt like wet doormat. He scanned the side wall, to the guard house. Shadows moved, but he couldn't tell what they were. He flattened his ears, and padded softly, softly towards the guard tower. Then he saw the dogs.
Arnie raced away as the dogs gave chase. He shot along the side of the courtyard, the dogs snapping at his heels. He sped towards the gymnasium, through the sports cages, into a sports cage, banging against the wire, tumbling to the dirt.
Arnie raised himself on his paws, unsheathed his claws. He took a quick look at the batting cage he'd entered. Chickenwire surrounded him, boxed him in to his left, his right, behind, above. And in front the dogs stood panting, staring at him. A large, one-eyed dog snarled at him, then growled and moved forward, the others following close behind.
Arnie waited for the inevitable. It didn't take long.
Arnie tried to ignore his mind, but the thoughts persisted. It had been stupid arguing. It had been stupid defending. It had been stupid retaliating. He wasn't that type. He wasn't that man. Now it didn't matter.
Arnie drew another reassuring breath of nicotine, and stared at the ceiling, watching the smoke collect, drift across the roof and escape. He was slowly running out of cigarette. He pictured the hairy man who'd pushed him against the wall. He remembered scratching the man's face, tearing at his eyes. He remembered the guards finally, thankfully, appearing.
Arnie felt the heat of the glistening head draw closer to his stained fingers. Taking the butt one last time to his lips, he sucked deeply, filling his lungs with the inky smoke, then flicked the butt through the cell bars in disgust.
Arnie sat staring at his food. It looked as lifeless as the stainless steel tray that held it. A stainless steel tray could do a lot of damage, he thought nervously. If you used it right. If you had a strong enough grip. If you caught your opponent off guard.
Arnie peered around at his fellow inmates. No one was looking at him. No one had noticed him. Each burrowed into the grey stew on their own stainless steel trays. Each wolfed the pale muck down, mindless of the other dogs.
Arnie stared at the tray, sniffed at the food. He didn't think he could stomach any more of the gruel. He ran a finger through it, then licked off the disgusting slop. Slowly he spat it back out onto the tray, then licked his finger clean again. Spit, clean, spit, clean, until the last of the muck had gone.
Arnie traced his fingers along the metal moulding around the base of the tray. If felt solid, he thought. Like a shield. You could use a tray as a weapon, or a shield. You could use it to beat a man to death, or ward off blows. It could be your shining cross, or a neck-breaking trap.
Arnie needed another razor. He was growing too much hair. Not hair, but a fine fur. A pelt. He was growing a pelt, and needed another razor. He wasn't worried. It didn't bother him. Waiting for the inevitable, he had lost interest in his appearance. Though the whiskers grew, he paid no attention.
Arnie hung about the courtyard doors. He thought about lurking near the corner, but there would be nowhere to run. Or near the side wall. The side wall had it's advantages. You could move along the wall and get back to the guard tower. But there would be no help there. You couldn't climb up it, or get around it. Just stand under it and wait. Or from the side wall you could try to escape through the sports cages. But you might also be caught inside one, boxed in by wire, caged by the hounds.
Arnie stayed near the courtyard doors. They were the safest. You could get inside, back to the cell. Or you could race into the open, where everything could be seen. You were safe in the open. Everyone knew that.
Arnie watched the inmates playing ball. Like children, kicking round a rotting soccer ball, playing in the dust, pushing, shoving, kicking. Ignoring him. No one looked in his direction. No one moved towards the courtyard doors. No one shouted for him to join in, or to stop the ball as it headed past. No one said a word.
Arnie needed new pants. His old ones were too long, too wide. They didn't fit any more. He wasn't worried. He hadn't eaten much for the past few days. He didn't go much to the cafeteria. Eating didn't appeal. He had lost his appetite. Food kept you whole, he thought. That wouldn't be the case for long. Eating didn't matter.
Arnie sat quietly in the prison library. He had chosen carefully. A wooden desk, facing towards the door. A large book, easy to hold in the hand, but heavy, thick. A silent room, so he could hear someone coming. Could watch them as they came in. Could close his book carefully, hold it in both hands, and prepare for the inevitable.
Arnie stared blankly at the pages of text before him. He wasn't concentrating on the words. He didn't care for what they had to say. Instead, he thought. Thought about the walls around him. Thought about the men who moved about the corridors, who shut themselves in their cages, who locked themselves inside, then locked their selves inside.
Arnie stared down at the book. A dictionary. He was reading a dictionary. He picked a random word, but the word made no sense. The words made no sense. They were just jumbled, random letters. He tried to read it, but failed, again, again. He slowly closed the book, turned away, and sighed.
Arnie heard the footsteps approaching. There was little he could do, but stand and wait. He listened as they grew louder, more defined. He resigned himself to the inevitable, and turned his back. He moved the tap a little, and the water drizzling upon his head changed from warm to hot. He disliked the water.
Arnie's nails needed cutting. The cuticles had grown long and jagged. Dirt collected underneath, blackening his fingertips. His jaw ached, his bones ached, his muscles ached. Noises were everywhere, hurting his ears. His skin was sensitive to touch. The light hurt his eyes. He wanted to wash away the pain, but he also wanted to avoid the showers.
Arnie bowed his head into the stream, closed his eyes. The sharp footsteps had gone. He listened for anything, any sign that someone was entering the showers. He felt the warmth of the water trickle across his shoulders. He smelt the stale stink of sweat and shit. He heard the sound of pissing somewhere; then he heard nothing.
Arnie waited for the blow. Eventually, he turned off the taps, and dried himself. He walked back to his cell, a bundle of dirtied clothes tucked under his arm. He arrived at his cell, placing the clothes in the canvas bag that lay outside his cell. He sat down on his bed. He wasn't worried. So he waited, and waited.
Arnie woke up. It was night, but he could see clearly through the bard of his cell across the way to the cell opposite. He sat up, but didn't feel right. I should be taller, he thought. The floor seems too near. The bed too far from the ground. Something is wrong, he thought, the cell doesn't feel right.
Arnie leapt off the bed, landing on cushioned claws. He didn't realise at first what he'd done, and stood, shocked, back arched, fur on end. He hissed a little, then calmed down. As his fur settled, he padded towards the cell door. The bars were very far apart, he thought, I could just slip through.
Arnie ran his face along a bar, rubbing his whiskers against the cool metal. He circled in and out of the cell a couple of times, then padded his way out the cell and down the corridor.
Arnie headed towards to yard. If I can get outside, he thought, I can run away. He didn't question what had happened. He could see an opening for escape, and didn't want to risk it in hesitation. He had waited for so long for the inevitable, but something different had happened. There was no retribution; there may be escape.
Arnie crept softly across the cold metal floors towards the courtyard doors. They were a little ajar. Perfect for a cat-body to slip through. He was pleased. He twitched his whiskers to show his pleasure. He was almost out the door. He was dying for a cigarette.
Arnie pushed the human thoughts aside. Being a cat is good, he decided. He pushed his way through the gap between the doors as his almond pupils grew in the night shadows. He slipped down the stairs and raced across the courtyards. He reached the far wall, then realised he couldn't jump it.
Arnie crept along the far wall for the side wall of the courtyard. He headed for the guard tower. He had a plan, a small one, a lucky plan. He was going to climb the guard tower, then jump over the wall, then escape. He was going to live another eight lives outside the prison grounds.
Arnie sauntered through the shadows, his eyes scanning the wall for the perfect place to cross. His whiskers brushed against the wall, making sure he didn't stray from the cool brickwork. His ears listened in anticipation for the bells that would surely start when he was discovered missing.
Arnie smelt something. Something he was not familiar with. It smelt like the canteen. It smelt like wet doormat. He scanned the side wall, to the guard house. Shadows moved, but he couldn't tell what they were. He flattened his ears, and padded softly, softly towards the guard tower. Then he saw the dogs.
Arnie raced away as the dogs gave chase. He shot along the side of the courtyard, the dogs snapping at his heels. He sped towards the gymnasium, through the sports cages, into a sports cage, banging against the wire, tumbling to the dirt.
Arnie raised himself on his paws, unsheathed his claws. He took a quick look at the batting cage he'd entered. Chickenwire surrounded him, boxed him in to his left, his right, behind, above. And in front the dogs stood panting, staring at him. A large, one-eyed dog snarled at him, then growled and moved forward, the others following close behind.
Arnie waited for the inevitable. It didn't take long.