4 - Pablo

The very thin mattress, the thin and rough quilt, and all the coldness contained in that bed " although I sweated a lot against the mattress without a sheet, due to what I thought was a flu ", made me aware that my day would be more of shit, like everyone else. My body was sore, as if a car had run over me. Of course, this was because of my damn mattress. If I lay down on the floor, I would probably feel less pain.

My cellmate was using the vase, and kept turning his back as I got up and stretched. Each muscle of my body creaked with the movement, like a very old and little used spring.

Without realizing it, I ended up holding it with a little more force against the mattress, and it tore itself in my hand, releasing foam. I laughed, and my cellmate looked over his shoulder. How much urine would that bastard have kept in a single night to take so long?

"Be careful, hermano," he said, in his foreign accent. I always suspected that Ramirez was Mexican. First, by last name. Then, for his angular face and with traits that could only be Latin. And the bastard didn't help at all by wearing bandanas on his forehead and keeping his hair up to his shoulders attached to a rubber band. "They will want to add the price of the mattress to their work in the kitchen.”

"Whatever," I grumbled in a hoarse tone. I gave a slight cough, feeling my whole chest vibrate from a hiss. The noise must have been much louder than I imagined, because Ramirez watched me with a frown. “I spit in their food every day. If they charge me something, it's because of the moral damage, or the diseases I transmit with each piece of the way.”

Ramirez laughed restrainedly, although his face still showed a remnant of concern. That's all I didn't need. Ramirez had his own shit to deal with. He was a married man, father, and who had been arrested for smuggling. He shared my cell because, as far as justice believed, I had also been arrested for the same reason.

Ramirez became an ally, more than just a friend. You can't go down to hell without an anchor, and he, somehow very gay and that I would never say out loud, became mine. Ramirez reassured me on stormy nights "he knew I was afraid of the rain, despite being a damn man twenty-six years old and almost two meters tall. He distracted me with stories about his newborn daughter, and the mother of the child who was still waiting for his return.

His sentence would still last for another three years. He had already fulfilled five of them. And the reason we were together was because his cellmate mysteriously appeared dead. I should have been more careful when telling Ramirez my problems and my fears. I should have been smarter, but I didn't go. I trusted the first person who offered me some advice and help, and, thank God, he had been a truly good person.

Ramirez never told me if he was responsible for the death of his cellmate, and I never asked. I didn't want to join your list, increase your years of sorrow, by teasing him until he killed me. Although death had ceased to be a fear, and had become a hope.

Being someone very religious, Ramirez woke up before everyone else, just to kneel near the window railings, and pray for a God who should have forgotten about him a long time ago. On some nights, he prayed until he got hoarse, as if asking for strength and fearing to stop praying and weakening himself. I understood him perfectly.

Death, mainly caused by itself, was one of the most serious sins in the Bible. However, in jail, there are no gods, no rules, no self-preservation. It's a totally different world. And even if Ramirez's religion made him cast me looks of concern or suspicion, he didn't dare say that I shouldn't wait for death.

I looked away when Ramirez continued intrigued by my cough, and looked at the floor again. An insect ran very close to my foot, and my legs popped when I stretched them. The muscles in my thighs were tense, stuck in a cramp because I slept in the same position.

It wasn't like the difficult life of prison prevented me from exercising those muscles acquired with the difficult life in the countryside, but, working in the kitchen to have some good behavior and stay far away from the prison gangs, I didn't have so much time to go around the yard and run to strengthen my legs.

My greatest strength was in my arms, shoulders and wide back. And I was very grateful for the food that was served in the penitentiary, because I very much doubted that I could maintain the weight or avoid winning it if it were not for the vegetables or fresh food we prepared.

I never imagined myself getting used to life in jail, but when you've been in the same situation for two years, you end up getting used to it. I already knew that at that time, even before the sunrise, a guard would come to my cell to escort me to the kitchen. I knew that my cellmate would be escorted to the bathrooms, where he would have to help with the cleaning.

I knew that the gang leaders would stay asleep until noon, because they thought they needed more hours of sleep to harness the lives of other newcomers. And I knew that the guards who expected the work of those who intended to reduce their penalties for good behavior, were not at all kind in the task of waking us up. It was no surprise when I was using the vase to release my bladder and found the guard in front of my cell putting a full bucket on the floor. He giggled low and hateful.

"Oh, shit, just today that I was preparing a nice bath for the girls? "He mocked, unlocking the cell. "Come on, ladies, we have work to do.”

My cellmate growled softly, but I giggled. I doubted very much that any of those guards would call me a young lady if I saw any of my gifts, whether they were them for a beautiful beating, or to show how man I could be in less public places. So I fixed my pants and approached the open door of the cell.

Some inmates were already leaving through the gate that separated us from the cafeteria, or from the rooms in which the director and the high-ranking members of the prison used to work throughout the day. My cellmate touched his elbow lightly on mine, and I watched him. The man always had that frown expression on his face, so that his forehead had always looked furrowed.

He wore a black bandana on his head, high enough to hide the root of his dark hair, and kept a very well trimmed mustache on his face. His strong arms were well exposed by the white tank top, and his gray sweatpants, like mine, also clung to the muscular points of his body.

"There's some wrong stop happening," he murmured, forcing a cough. He was pretending he had caught the same flu as mine a week ago. He said that being sick made the guards avoid certain types of heavy work, so he was always pretending some illness. "It's too quiet.”

"You're right," I said softly, watching as the guard behind us closed the cell and carried his bucket.

" Stop gossiping," he grumbled, passing between us to separate us. The man was small, abused, and thought that the uniform would stop him if we wanted to increase our pen and rip his brains out. Of course, the gun at the waist, next to the baton and the shock gun, gave it some security in addition to the lack of muscles. He smiled ironically, waving for us to follow, like dogs. "Let's start this work soon. The day seems to be very promising.”

I was already informed enough in the prison kitchen and in the gang allies to understand that a promising day could only mean death for someone. It wasn't new. Everyone knew that one day or another some prisoner hanged, or assaulted, would appear. It was a jungle.

The jail had its own laws. And I just kept myself alive for two years for respecting them, for knowing who to talk to and what to talk to. Therefore, even passing through the cell where a body swayed a few meters from the ground, hanged by the detainee's blanket, I ignored the song of death hovering in my ears and followed the guard to my job.