I pretend all the time now

I pretend you went on a long trip instead of dying

I’m doing better than I really am

I am coping so well

that I don’t need to ugly cry

Because you died

I pretend I still hear you

That every house noise I hear is you getting my attention

To let me know you are still around

(I think)

I pretend I am not so lonely that every fiber of my being aches to hear from you

I pretend to not be mad at you for dying so early

For leaving my daughter and son without a father

and me a widow

I pretend I don’t have enough sorrow to fill all the dark matter in the universe

I pretend I am not still mad at you

that I have forgiven you completely at least ten times

(not quite yet)

Maybe if I keep pretending

One day, I’ll believe my own bull crap

I, Annad Connely, died on September 18, 2024. No one was as surprised as I was. I had a heart condition that hid underneath my chronic pain. It gave me something else to blame until heart disease took my life, too early, at age 59.

This is when I learned that our hells are created on earth and carried over into the afterlife. Mine was seeing my family struggle without me. I wished I listened to them when they begged me to go to the doctor.

A few weeks after my death, though, Nova, my wife, surprised me more than my own death; she contacted her parents who treated her little better than a dog. All the years of work we did to help her heal put her in peril, and I was powerless to stop it. Alarmed, I did everything I could to dissuade her, but she couldn't hear me, her belief that she should continue to speak with them so she didn't die estranged from her parents like I had from my mother and siblings blocking any messages I could send her.

However, today, everything changed. Nova told her father about a comicon costume contest our daughter had entered but didn't win. Her father said he was sorry, and Nova said she was not. Participating in the contest is a hobby for our daughter, something low-stakes she could pursue and experience mild disappointment when things don't work out, left her resilience intact while having fun. The skills she develops made her a true winner in the end. When did she become so smart?

Her father's response hit me like a thunderclap. He encouraged his granddaughter to pursue her passion, citing at least a handful of ways she could go on and make a career out of making costumes, such as working at museums.

My shock was overwhelming and complete, creating a booming sound in our little house, and my entire family heard it. My wife joked that it was me falling off the bed from surprise. My lovely wife, so intuitive. She didn't even realize how accurate she really was.

I was so happy for her progress, so proud about how strong she had become. Never did I imagine that she would be able to speak to her father again, but yet, after I died, she pursued a relationship and handled both her parents with grace. Not only had her father become better person, but with my death, somehow Nova had transformed into something magical.

After the kerfuffle of my sonic boom died down, Nova turned on her music again, and I sent her a message. I added to her playlist two songs expressing the way I felt, trying my best to let her know that yes, that boom was me; "Just You N' Me" by Chicago and "(Sittin Here) Lovin' You" by Lovin' Spoonful.

As usual, Nova seemed to nod in acknowledgement, and for the first time since my death, she danced around the kitchen, happy.

Tell me, John, once and for all. Did you refuse medical care because you wanted to die?

The pain was overwhelming. It was sucking all the joy out of my life. That is not the way I wanted to live. I wanted to enjoy my time with you and the kids, and after a while, I couldn’t even do that.

Maybe a doctor could have helped you. I never would have given up the search. I would have searched the rest of my life so we could bring you to a doctor who is successful with chronic pain. In the meantime, the pain hid your heart condition, and we could have gotten that taken care of too. You gave up.

Not exactly. I fought with every ounce of my being until the end. I was just fighting the wrong thing.

What about all the things we were able to resolve before you died? Sometimes, I wonder if you did this because you were planning for your death.

You said it yourself. Sometimes, I followed my instincts, and I don’t know what drove them a lot of times. My instincts in this case drove me to resolving everything with you. This way, all that was left was love and forgiveness at the end.

I haven’t forgiven you yet for dying on me and the kids.

I know.

I think I have the best reason for being angry.

I know. But, now, you are free.

I didn’t want to be free from you. I wanted to simply continue to enjoy your company.

Don’t cry. Haven’t you done enough of that?

Shut up.

Now I get to take care of your instead of you taking care of me. My death freed you of constantly having to work. I am always here. I will always support you. It’s my turn to take care of you.

I hear you moving things around the room every night, right around where I keep your ashes. It’s either that, or we have some big rats.

Hahah! Giant rats. Yeah, that’s it.

How do I know that this is even you? I could be wishing this conversation was real. If I told anyone how much I really talk to you every day, like you’re still here, they would probably think I am just a poor, old widow hallucinating from grief.

None of that is true. Do you know what is true?

Hmmm?

My love for you. The fact that I am still here. It’s real.

It doesn’t help that I am still mad at you.

I know. I hope I can help you get over that one day.

It’s just frustrating. I want to be aware of you all the time, like you’re still here, and it hasn’t been happening like that. Every day, I feel you slipping farther and farther away. I feel farther from you, at least.

I’m not. I’m just a thought away. I transitioned. You have to transition with me. You have to adjust. I know you’re not happy with it, but it’s our reality at the moment.

I am afraid if I heal, I won’t hear you anymore. I am afraid that if I heal, you’ll be gone.

I won’t be. You’ll be able to connect with me more strongly. Grief is the process of letting go. A lot of times, people hang onto their sadness and anger because they are afraid of letting go of the last thing they have from that person, the sadness over the loss. It’s just an illusion created by the sadness part of grief.

What if I remarry?

I will share you. Haven’t I always?

…

It’s good to see you laugh a bit.

You have always been funny.

Our connection during life was strong. That connection doesn’t die when the body dies. Love and memories are the only things that remain after death. I will always be here with you. I will always love you.

I am sorry that my love for you couldn’t save you. I prayed every day.

I am saved. I have no more pain. It just wasn’t in a physical sense, like you wanted. Unfortunately, it was not possible to save my broken body. It was too far gone.

I know. I don’t like this. This sucks so badly. I used to think I could handle anything.

You can.

I’m having a lot of trouble handling your death.

I know.

We were supposed to grow really old together. I’m still going to kill you when I get to heaven for dying so early.

I know that too. You would tell me that every once in a while: If you die first, I’ll kill you.

At the time, it seemed funny. Now, not so much.

I’m sorry. When you die, and we are together, you can kill me if it makes you feel better.

See? You said you weren’t a writer like me, but you just created the perfect example of verbal irony.

…

I’m sorry you couldn’t live out your dreams.

I appreciate everything you did to help support me. Besides, those dreams were just things I personally enjoyed doing, so they weren’t real dreams. My real dream was you and the kids. …

Stop crying. You’ll get a headache again.

Too late.

My love, I have a wish for you. I hope that every time you think of me, you’ll smile and laugh instead of cry.

I will try my dear husband. I will try. I promise.

You were right in a sense. There were days I wanted to die because the pain was so bad.

Yeah. J. J. told me you said that to him one day over a decade ago, when he was still a kid. He kept that secret for you all these years, waiting until after your death to share it with me. That wasn’t fair to him, you sharing that with him.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell my best friend, you.

I can see why.

How many people tried to break us apart?

Many.

I wouldn’t even allow the pain to drive us apart. I stuck around for as long as I possibly could.

…

You’re doing great with the kids.

Thanks. It’s easy. I just think of what you would do, and I do it. It seems to be the right call every single time.

Get some sleep, now. You have an early day tomorrow.

Okay. I will. Goodnight, my love.

I’ll see you and love you, always and forever.

After my husband died, he appeared in a dream. He seemed healthy and relaxed, his long white hair glowing, and he sat on our couch in the living room.

I sat down next to John. "You're here! You're really here. And I can touch you." I hugged him for an eternity, wanting his touch to last forever on my skin.

We released each other, and he took my hands into his and looked into my eyes. "I have been here all along."

This is wonderful, I thought. Now, we can really communicate with each other whenever I wish, the veil of death no longer an issue.

When I was just about to form the words to work out a communication plan with my husband in spirit so I could speak with him whenever I wished, the movement of my mouth woke me up. I had no idea I was sleeping, but the warmth of my husband's touch remained, as fresh as when he was alive.

My children and I trudged on without him. Grandchildren, decades of birthdays and holidays all passed in what seemed like a moment, creating many years of happy memories while John stood by our side, felt by us but not seen and occasionally heard.

After a lifetime, I woke up and saw my husband again. He looked even better this time, like he did when we first met, his dark hair on the long side, his eyes electric blue and no longer clouded with pain as they were in life. I looked down at my hands. They were unlined and young. I felt my face, and the skin was smooth.

He smiled at me with a perfect row of teeth. "You're here."

Instead of his touch, a feeling of peace enveloped my body, a wholeness and completeness. My miniscule life, although long by earth standards, paled in comparison to eternity—a flash in the pan, like a dream, and no less real than spending the rest of time with my best friend.

My soulmate. He looks like a Hell's Angel. Rough around the edges. Big white beard. Big broad shoulders. Claims he doesn't care about anything, except for me and the kids.

We met at the second Woodstock concert in Saugerties, New York, and instantly fell in love. Not kidding. Not really love at first sight. It was more like love at fourth of fifth sight. We had crossed paths in Westchester County, New York a handful of times in our youth. We just discovered another time, just the other night, when we were in the same place at the same time. Always close, but still so far. We had no idea we were destined to be together for the rest of our lives.

During the concert, the stars and planets aligned, and the magic happened. The angel choir sung as fireworks exploded. Again, in the same place together at the same time, but this time, we saw each other. We found each other. We had arrived home.

We joined together in every sense during that concert, and we have not been separate since then. Always together. Always in love. Always friends. Occasionally mad, but always quick to forgive.

I married my Hell's Angel, and I have been in heaven since then. We have created beautiful children together. We have carved out a life together, my soulmate and I. We never feel lonely, and we have endless love.

This is what having a soulmate is like.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” There was never a boring moment with Nate. It made life at Snohomish High School bearable, but this time topped everything else. They had painted the circle on the floor with symbols and sat in the old, abandoned house at the end of the cul-de-sac, obviously, so nothing would disturb them.

Nate rolled his eyes. “It’s not. We’re disproving the legend of Eski. You know that, Tally.”

“Nate, what if it works? I know, it’s ridiculous.” She read her iPhone screen, ignoring her own dark-haired, dark-eye reflection in the screen. “Eski: born of a thousand tortured souls’ tormented screams during the Holocaust in WWII. A collection of the darkest human energy.” Tally zipped up her black, fuzzy jacket, though it did little against the chill. “Eski can materialize into human form, thanks to Hitler.

“To awaken Eski and bring on Armageddon, make a blood sacrifice, and completely drain the blood of the offering. The more your sacrifice screams, the better chance you have to awaken... Nate, I don’t want to do this.”

Nate snorted. “Yeah, see? Totally ridiculous. Who would bring on Armageddon?”

“You.”

“I’m going to debunk it and put it on my Youtube site along with all of the other videos,” Nate continued. “My fans are going to love this.”

“Well, I hate this. You haven’t told me what you are going to kill in order to have it die a horrific death.”

“That’s the beauty of it. I have a recording of screams from an actual recorded torture-”

“You’re a sick person-”

”-and I have some pig’s blood I got from a slaughterhouse.” He pulled out a gallon jug from his knapsack.

“Great. Sooo much better.” Eye roll.

“Okay, start recording.”

Tally sighed and held up her iPhone, pointing it at Nate’s iPhone-illuminated, apple-pie face.

Nate poured the pig’s blood into a bucket in the middle of the circle, dipped his hand into the bucket, and smeared the liquid onto his cheeks and chest while chanting jibberish. The odor of blood permeated the entire room; Tally’s dinner rose for an encore.

A five-minute pause. “Okay, Nate. Nothing happened, and you look disgusting. Can we...”

A low, rumbling roar developed in the belly of the house.

*****

Tally eyed Nate. She sniffed the bucket and dunked her head into it. She sputtered and coughed. “How dare you summon me with pig’s blood.” Tally-Eski opened her mouth unnaturally wide and screamed the horrific scream of a thousand souls.

Nate shook until blood spurted out of every orifice in his body. Ravenous, Eski drank every delicious drop.

He threw Nate’s body aside and lumbered out of the house and toward the screams down the dirt road.

A sign: “Stalker Farms.” Two hundred people moved slowly toward the farmhouse.

“Cool costume.” One man smiled at Tally-Eski. “What are you, Carrie?”

Eski offered an awkward, unnatural, smile, cherishing the scream it elicited from his next meal.

For my husband. Based upon true events.

Fifi was dead. Reubideux, his cell mate, choked him during a shared climax while grunting and thrusting Fifi into the afterlife.

If it weren't for the fact that Fifi slept with the entire male population, the inmates wouldn't have cared at all if he lived or died; but when the first and second shift took away their hooch so the inmates had to do without their sex and alcohol, and gave them matches when it was against regulations, the inmates decided to counter their insufferable boredom by lighting toilet paper rolls and hurling them at the officers on duty.

Pete and I dodged their firebomb protests as we patrolled the CCU, the Confined Control Unit, as opposed to shepherding a unit full of sleeping inmates and doing head counts.

"That's it! I'm radioing the captain," shouted Pete, a rare appearance of anger escaping from behind his Marine mien after a flaming toilet paper roll soared within millimeters of his eyebrows, almost caught me on my chest on its descent, and exploded upon impact with the floor a foot away from us.

Captain Muldowny replied as if he were deciding which football game to watch. "Just break the arm of the next inmate who throws a firebomb at you." This directive exited the walkie talkie speaker and echoed down the hall so everyone heard it, and the firebombs stopped, but it didn't quell the catcalls, the cursing, and the fighting. Riling up the prisoners was a routine component of the second shift's campaign to ensure the third shift would need to work as hard as they did during the inmates' waking hours, but the turmoil the prisoners caused that night was unsurpassed.

Pete and I finished our rounds in the CCU and awaited our next set of orders next to the control room. We nodded at Scarecrow, who was gatekeeper for the night. As we were chatting, we heard what no officer in the world wanted to hear; the echoing click of freedom. A mixture of adrenaline and bile filled my mouth. All the doors slid open at once.

I looked at Scarecrow. "Why the fuck did you do that?"

Scarecrow shrugged as if his girlfriend had brought him shopping for curtains. What did he care? He only took the job to get him through the winter months. In the spring, he was going back to his construction job.

"Stupid fuck," Pete hollered and pounded the shatter-proof plexiglass with the side of his fist.

We had no time to focus on Scarecrow's customary incompetence. With only seconds to react, I took my walkie-talkie and depressed the button on the side. "Mayday, mayday. The inmates are out of their cells and are rioting." We tossed our radios and badges through the gate toward the main door so they could not be used as weapons against us.

"We're fucked," Pete spat, each passing moment perfecting the resolution of our fates.

I took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "We are not going to die today."

*****

You couldn't be a boy in the Bronx in the 1970s and not know how to fight. A few weeks after my tenth birthday, my older brother, Tommy, decided that his younger brother was not going to arrive home with another bloodied nose. He brought out the pair of Everlast boxing gloves my father gave us for Christmas. Our driveway deposited into a concrete pad in the back of the house, which was, in simple terms, "the backyard," and it was here my training commenced.

"That's right, keep up your fists in front of you." Tommy guided my forearms in front of me. "Don't let the other guy land one on you by keeping your face open. Keep your fists in front to protect you. When you see an opening, punch with all of your might." I jabbed the air in front of me. "Yeah, like that. Good. Keep your elbow here," he said, shifting my elbow, "and you'll punch harder."

"Oh, look, sissy boy is learning how to fight like a girl," shouted Pat, the eldest of the Horrible Hannigans, from the top of our driveway. Pat hit his growth spurt when he was twelve, and at thirteen asserted his dominance over smaller victims, especially if they made the ill-fated decision to utter the words "Fat Pat."

His brothers snickered. "Yeah, look at the pussy trying to fight," yelled one of them. No one really knew the other brothers by name. None of them stood out in action or word, uniform in their purpose to pay homage to their brother's physical superiority.

My brother observed my struggle. "Don't let them see you upset, and don't ever cry in front of another guy. You'll never live it down. You're big too," he said, and he was right. I was always bigger than Tommy even though a year and a half separated us. Tommy took after my father, and I took after my grandfather, who was stacked like one of brick houses he helped build in our neighborhood. "You need to start believing you're a big guy and no one can knock you down," he instructed. He turned to face the loitering pack at the top of the driveway. "Yeah, why don't you come over here, you fat fuck," he yelled, "and my brother will make you eat your words."

That was all Patrick needed to hear. His cheeky smile pushed his eyes into narrow slits. He lumbered down the driveway, his brothers trailing behind him with wicked, blood lust smiles.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I scanned my memory in earnest to elucidate the reason behind my brother's willingness to ensure my demise.

Tommy turned back to me. I looked into his eyes as I kept my peripheral vision on the pack of Hannigans closing in. "You always take the biggest one out first, then they won't fuck with you. You're smaller, so you can duck easier. Remember, this is a street fight. There are no rules. So you punch him here," he said, pointing to his solar plexus right below his chest, "and knock the wind out of him. Then you take out his knee, kick him in the balls. Get him to bend over. Then you can kick him in the face, or plant an uppercut right here," he said, pointing to his chin. "You'll put 'em out cold every time. You stand up to him this one time, Jack, and you'll never have to worry about him again." Tommy's nod of confidence steeled my resolve to turn many moments of fantasized violence into a historical moment.

Pat punched his fist into the palm of his other hand right in front of my nose. "So you ready to cry, pussy?" he sneered. His brothers snickered behind him.

Tommy elbowed his arm into mine. "Go ahead. Knock him on his fat ass." He stepped back. I looked Pat straight in the eye and put up my fists.

Pat's slit-eyed smile never left as he strode around me in a circle, his arms hanging by his side. I ducked as he reached one arm over to tousle the top of my head in an attempt to deliver the most humiliating beating possible while his brothers assaulted me with insults, bolstering their brother's notion of superiority. I felt my blood pulse with the vengeance of Pat's victims.

Pat came at me, his fist cocked back. It was the opening I needed. When he came in close, my fist ensured his immediate collapse when it hurtled into his jaw.

Tommy jumped up and down as he let out a rebel yell. He clapped me on the back. We both stared at the pile of Pat on the floor. The rest of the Horribles gasped. "You want some too?" I asked them, punching my boxing gloves together like I saw the boxers do on television. They took a collective step back, shook their brother awake, and did their best to help their stumbling brother back home a few doors down.

"Man, Pop, you should have seen him after I showed him those moves. Bam! Right to the ground he fell," Tommy boasted at the dinner table to broadcast his contribution in bringing down the biggest bully in the neighborhood. My sister remained silent, chewing and brooding to imitate her authority-questioning collection of hippie friends. My mother's forehead wrinkled with concern. My parents knew the angst the Horribles cause in the neighborhood with all the kids, but mothers being mothers, they worry about their boys fighting.

The telephone rang. My mother got up from the table to answer.

"You okay?" asked my dad, his tone conveying pride more than concern. I smiled and nodded.

"Well, if your son hadn't been beating up everyone in the neighborhood, this might not have happened," I heard my mother state to Mrs. Hannigan in my defense. After a moment of listening, my mother stated, "You should feel lucky that it didn't happen sooner."

Every time Pat saw me after that, he put his head down and walked past me. Because he sat on nearly everyone in the neighborhood, his victims weren't going to let him forget that a little boy half his size beat the crap out of him, and everyone else knew who did it, so no one beat on me after that. That was the end of the incident and the reign of the Horrible Hannigans.

*****

The CCU was a big, round rotunda, and in the middle was the control room where an officer was always stationed to lock and unlock all the doors in the unit. Evenly spaced around the rotunda were five doorways leading to five corridors where the inmates were housed.

Scarecrow thought he earned his nickname because of his lean, lanky body, but in reality, it was because he lacked a brain, and when he opened all of the cell doors by mistake that day, no one ever let him forget it. He called into the intercom when he saw all the inmates rushing towards the control room from their cells.

As soon as the captain heard of the riot, the entire prison went into automatic lockdown, which meant no one could get in or out of the prison. This also meant all the doors to each of the units, SPU, CCU, SHU, and North and South were locked shut and had to be opened with special override keys held only by the warden. Pete and I were locked in the CCU with one hundred and twenty inmates roaming free and no way to escape. And, everyone who could help us control the population was locked outside of the unit.

The SPU, the Special Psychiatric Unit, where all the inmates who were too crazy to be with other human beings were kept, was on the floor right above the CCU. There was a trap door in the control room where officers could be pulled up through the ceiling in case of an emergency. Danny, the officer working SPU third shift, looked down through the trap door. "Oh, shit," he said when he saw all the inmates coming towards us. He reappeared and threw down a padded belt attached to a rope. Scarecrow secured the belt around his waist, and Danny and Ray pulled Scarecrow right up through the ceiling. Danny looked down at us. "Just hang in there. We're going to get the Major here as soon as we can. I hope you survive. Good luck." Pete and I nodded. Danny closed the trap door. My heart filled with dread, I swallowed the bitter pill, and turned to the task at hand—staying alive.

I looked around the rotunda. It was too late. We couldn't make it to any of the cells to lock ourselves in, which is what they told us to do in the academy. "We take our stand here," I said to Pete. "We need to stay back to back up against the wall so no one can clock us from behind." He nodded. He was a Marine in the Reserves. He knew what to do. "I got your back and you got mine."

"On your six. I got your back, Jack," he said to me. I laughed, because my name really is Jack, and it wasn't the first time I heard that in my life.

*****

Eventually, when I was twelve, I had a summer where I grew about six inches. When I returned to school that year, I towered over everyone else. My size and my ability to fight is what got me into the Grim Reapers three years later.

You had to get Pebbles to ask you to hang out in order to join the Reapers. My brother brought me out with him one night and introduced me to Pebbles. While we were talking, this kid came over and was giving us a hard time, so I slammed him into a telephone pole. The kid hit his head and whined when the blood trickling down his face.

Pebbles looked straight at me and asked, "Would you like to join the Grim Reapers?"

In a lot of ways, it was a gang. It wasn't like it was a gang gang, where we sold drugs, pimped out hoes, or had to get beat in or kill someone or steal a car. If you found a cool gang to hang out with, it was really the best thing to do, because even pedestrians were harassed in some neighborhoods if you were the wrong color.

Most of the time, we hung out and had fun. All the guys had a Grim Reaper tattoo. We played Ringaleevio and walked around the Bronx in our cutoff jackets with the Grim Reaper on our backs, or we took rides in the Crazy Albanian's Challenger and fought off rival gangs when they tried to intimidate us into leaving their turf. It was a great summer. The girls were really hot. Pebbles told everyone I stood up for him, so I got laid a lot.

My father was part of a gang when he grew up too, so he wasn't mad when we started hanging out, as long as they weren't the Baldies because the Baldies were sick in the head, and we didn't do anything stupid like follow Pebbles on one of his cat burgling adventures. What made him mad was when Tommy got the tattoo, his Grim Reaper.

"You stupid shit. You know your brother is going to get one now too."

They looked at me. I laughed. Sure enough, the following week I showed up with a bandage on my arm. My father just shook his head, muttering about us being dumb shits for getting a tattoo and blamed my brother.

One night, we were walking around, and we wound up in another neighborhood somewhere along the "L," which is what we called the subway tracks above the ground. Suddenly, another gang surrounded us. It was fifteen Grim Reapers against forty of them. Everything went into slow motion. We paired up and got back to back. This gang had pipes, bats, chains, and knives. We had our fists.

*****

When the inmates came towards us, it reminded me of the street brawls with the Grim Reapers, especially when everything went into slow motion. Some of the guys in the front were laughing, looking at us like we were lunch and they haven't eaten in years.

"Okay, guys, if you get back into your cells now, no one will get hurt. If you don't, I cannot guarantee your safety," I stated.

That created a burst of laughter as they surrounded us on the left, right, and front. "You hurt us?" Scagg, a really tall, skinny kid, shouted. "We're going to rape you pigs, then hang you."

I caught Pete out of the corner of my eye. He looked shaken. I was pissed. "Don't say I didn't warn you, then," I said.

About ten of the older guys turned around and said, "You guys should all just get back into your cells." They weren't going to fight on our behalf, but they made their statement and walked back to their cells, leaving about a hundred more inmates.

"Yeah, that's right, you old fucks, go back to your cells," one of the kids sneered.

The front ten rushed us.

As we fended off dozens of blows to our arms, head, chest, and stomach, something inside of me switched. It was a bubbling pit of lava in my stomach. Not even my rotten sister had gotten me that mad, or my hag girlfriend who complained every time we had sex. I saw flashes in front of me. My brother teaching me to fight, punching out Horrible Pat Hannigan, living through gang fights. This was a bare-knuckled, knock-down street brawl and not one of those inmates was going to prevent me from living out my life, and they for damn sure weren't going to lay a hand on me to rape me. Everything I was and everything I was meant to be collided, and it brought something out in me I have never seen since.

"Pete," I shouted. Five guys were beating on him. He was Marine-trained, but they went for him first because he was the smaller target. They had trouble reaching me because I had longer arms and legs. I took Pete's arms and hooked them in mine and I swung him around on my back. His feet caught two inmates on the jaws and knocked them out. It gave us a moment's breathing room. The rest backed up. "Pete. Knees, balls, and feet."

Pete eyed one of the inmates coming towards him. The inmate had a pair of flimsy shoes on, and Pete had on steel-toed work boots. He smiled and stomped right on the inmate's foot. We heard the sound of the inmate's bones cracking. The guy hopped back howling. He looked at me and smiled. "Good one, Gallagher." He stomped on three more feet. We smiled as they howled and hopped around.

Trecot, an inmate that had just gotten transferred to our prison last month, had a reputation for being really crazy, so I knew I had to take him out fast. I did most of the overnight counseling because the hired counselors wouldn't answer overnight calls, so I read his file when he first came into SHU, and somehow he wound up in CCU. He would kill me if he had the chance. As he came towards me, I took my fingers and I jutted them right into his throat. He took a couple of involuntary steps backward, his eyes bulging out of his head. A gurgling sound came from his throat. He gasped a couple of times as his lungs tried to fill with air. He fell like a sack of rocks and never got up again. I thought I had killed him.

*****

One of the first documents we signed when we were in the academy contained a clause stating that the prison had no obligation to come and get us out if we were in a riot situation. We signed those papers, understanding that if we were caught in that situation, we would be left for dead. Our best bet was to make it to a cell to lock ourselves in, but the COs laughed it off. That situation has never happened, they stated, so it wasn't something we had to worry about. All of us signed the papers, looking forward to that big, fat paycheck from the paid overtime we heard so much about.

*****

Hour six, it seemed they had made good on their promise.

"They probably think we're dead." Pete leaned up against the wall, panting. He couldn't stand on his left knee and one of his eyes was swollen shut.

By then, cries of pain and misery were filling the air. Thirty guys leaned up against the wall of the control room. There were broken bones protruding from legs and arms. Many didn't move. If they were dead, I didn't care. They wanted to rape Pete and me so they were no longer human to me. They were demons.

At one point, I had a guy's head in my hands, and I could have snapped his neck. Instead, I went for the blood, and I smashed his head against the wall. I knew the blood would make a number of them think twice, and this guy was a gusher. Twenty more inmates filtered back to their cells.

There were still thirty inmates who wouldn't give it up. If they killed a correction officer, they would enjoy the title of king of the prison and the many benefits the title brought; free cigarettes, a band of followers, and most of all, respect. Luckily, they were starting to tire, so every once in a while, we would get a break while the inmates discussed who would rush at us next.

One guy was working himself into a frenzy, pacing back and forth, grunting, punching his fist into his other hand. Another guy started making odd karate movie sounds.

"Oh, so you think you're Bruce Lee?" I asked him.

"I'm better than Bruce Lee," he said while I watched him do what he thought was karate. Pete shook his head. When he came close enough, Pete took his bad leg and clocked him on the chin. It was enough to put his lights out.

I laughed. "Thanks. Good one."

"That guy always bugged me," Pete winced.

The guy working himself into a frenzy must have felt he had gotten frenzied enough and came at me, giving a rebel yell of some sort. I took the palm of my hand and planted it onto his chest, right over his heart. He fell back, gurgling. Blood spurted from his mouth.

"What the fuck was that?" asked Pete, his eyes wide.

"Heart punch," I replied.

He shook his head. "Where the fuck did you learn that?"

I laughed. "I'll tell you later."

*****

After the eleventh hour of being locked in and fighting to live, all I could think about was how nice it would be to see my father again, just to make it to the parking lot and sit on my Harley. Pete and I had worked through most of the crowd. More inmates went back to their cells. There was a body count of sixty inmates lined up along the walls of the rotunda moaning, screaming, crying in pain, or unconscious. We still had a crowd of ten around us, knowing they may never have another chance to kill a prison officer.

Then we finally heard it. It was the click to the gate downstairs. We were almost there; fifteen more minutes until the goon squad came in. Pete and I knew it, and the inmates knew it too. All ten made one last final rush at us. My arms and legs were like lead weights as I landed blow after blow. I was not about to be knocked unconscious, especially after I made it for twelve hours.

Two of the guys from the goon squad arrived and saw us through the barred door. "Holy shit, they're alive. They're alive!" They shouted it over the radio. Then they looked down at the bodies on the floor. "And they're winning!" he shouted incredulously. We could hear the officers cheer for us over the radio.

While we were busy fighting off the last ten, we heard the signs that our struggle was almost over. The radios, the footfalls from the boots, the ambulances coming in. They had the key from the warden. They were waiting for the order. The rest of the goon squad arrived at the door to cheer us on. I took two of the inmates and threw them up against the gates. The officers held the inmates to the gate by their throats.

Finally, we heard the final click of the door unlocking and the goon squad clad in riot gear rushed in. Two of them stood in front of us with their riot shields. Pete and I collapsed to the floor. The rest of the forty men chased down the inmates who fought us until the end. All you heard were cries of pain and the crack of breaking bones when the officers fell on top of them with riot shields.

"We made it," Pete said.

*****

They helped us up and brought us down to the CCU office where the sergeant and the captain were waiting. We fell to the floor. They brought us water. The nurse, Dolores, came in.

She shook her head. "Jack, I tell you, you can take the boy out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the boy. This shit just seems to follow you everywhere you go, doesn't it? What am I going to do with you?"

I managed a laugh. Dolores was sweet. Her daughter had cancer. She ran the medical unit in the prison.

As she was checking us out, she asked, "So, is it true? You fought off the whole unit?"

Pete and I nodded.

"Thank goodness." She assessed my elbows and knuckles. They were raw and bloodied. She cracked the emergency ice pack and put it over Pete's swollen eye, and she put some bandages on us.

She looked at the Captain Muldowny. "No broken bones. They're pretty banged up. Pete might need some stitches."

The captain nodded.

"Well, if you boys will excuse me, I have to go see the carnage." Dolores looked me in the eye. "I'm sure if you're still here, Jack, most of them are dead." She left the room.

"The warden wants to talk with you," Sergeant Halstead told us.

"The warden can go fuck himself," I said.

"Can I quote you?" asked the sergeant.

"Can I tell him myself?"

The sergeant looked at Captain Muldowny. The captain, standing with his arms crossed, closed his eyes and shook his head.

"The captain says no. No, we shouldn't let you anywhere near the warden," said the sergeant. Muldowny knew I would take the warden and lock him in with the prisoners next.

"So, what do you guys want to do now?" asked the sergeant.

"I want to go home and kiss my wife," said Pete.

"Yeah, I want to go home and kiss Pete's wife," I said.

"Shut the fuck up," said Pete.

We all laughed.

"Can you stand?" asked the Sarge.

Pete and I nodded and got up. When we opened the door, Earl from investigations was standing at the door.

"Jack, Pete, we need..."

I put up my hand, took my finger and put it to my lips. "Ssshhh. Go see what the CCU looks like. Unless you want to be one of them, you'll step aside."

After a long gaze, Earl stepped aside. "Give us a few days," I instructed him. "I will not talk until I'm ready." I walked past him.

"Yeah, you fuckin' buzzard," said Pete, and walked past Earl. He knew Earl was there to get to us when we were weak. Tired officers made mistakes, mistakes they could use against us when they interrogated us.

Sarge and two guys from the goon squad, Mike and Jerry, helped us to the parking lot.

"You know, there really wasn't anything for us to do by the time we got there, Gallagher," said Mike.

"Yeah, all we got to do was load up ambulances. You should leave some fun for us next time," said Jerry.

Pete shook his head and laughed. Mike helped Pete into his driver's seat and closed the door for him.

They helped me limp over to my chopper. Sarge paused, looking down for a moment as if he were trying to find the right words to say, then looked me in the eye. "It was the warden. He told us you were on your own. It took the captain and the major several hours to convince him to go in. We had our team ready. You would have been out in the first hour. The warden was the one who held it up. Liberal prick."

I didn't know what to say. I was just happy to see my Harley again. I never wanted a joint so badly in my life. I thought about getting a drink, but I knew if I started drinking, I wouldn't stop. I got on my Harley and kick-started the motor. The patented chug-a-lugging of the motor never sounded as sweet.

"You going to be able to ride that thing?" the Sarge shouted over the motor.

I revved the motor and nodded. "Yeah, I'll be okay."

I gave him a wave, made the right turn out of the parking lot, and started the ascent to my house two miles away, my helmet still attached on the back. I wanted to feel the wind on my face.

*****

I was so happy when I saw our little house on the pond and my dog bounding out of the front door.

My father greeted me at the door. "I heard the sirens go off. I tried to call, but they wouldn't let me talk to you." He saw me limping. "What in the world happened?"

"There was a riot, Dad. Pete and I were caught right in the middle of it. I had to fight my way out of it for twelve hours." I put down my stuff on the living room couch and limped into the kitchen.

"Shit," he said. He took an angry drag on his cigarette and followed me into the kitchen. "Well, thank God you're okay," he said while my back was turned to him. I winced as I got a glass out of the cabinet and looked in the refrigerator for some iced tea. "I think you should quit," he said. "What the hell happened in there?"

I looked at him. You can look at people for years, day in and out, and after a while, you stop seeing them. I saw him that day. He looked as tired as I felt. The whole thing with my mother, getting laid off from his job after we moved to New England, losing the business, he had bags under his eyes and a head full of white hair. He never gained weight, always smoking those cigarettes and eating chocolate donuts for dinner. I remember when he seemed invincible to me. "I hurt a lot of people today, Dad. Besides, I can't quit. We need the money."

"Quit, and we'll figure it out."

"I'd like to get something to eat and some sleep. We'll talk about the rest later."

He looked down at the bandages up and down my arms, the bruises and swelling, and the bandage on my head. "Did they patch you up over there?"

"Yeah."

He put his hand on my arm, and I flinched and raised my fist, toppling my drink all over the counter. I sighed and looked at him apologetically. My eyes teared. I had never raised a hand to him, or him to me.

"How about I get you some food and you go rest," he said calmly.

I nodded. I made the trip up the stairs to my room. As I hung my jacket in my closet, I looked at those boxing gloves hanging over the rod next to the one suit jacket I owned, a reminder of what made me who I am. I think I was asleep before I made it to my bed.

*****

Pete and I decided to go over our plan on what we were going to tell investigations. If you undergo an investigation in the prison, they treat you like an inmate. They needed someone to blame for the entire incident, and it didn't seem like they were going to blame the people who were responsible for the entire riot, Scarecrow, or the second shift for inciting the prisoners, or the asshole warden for leaving us in there to fight for our lives. Pete and I knew we had to plan what we were going to say and how we were going to handle their tricks. We decided to go in with a simple signed statement.

Pete and I were awaiting our next orders from our CO. Eddie pushed the button, opening all the doors in the CCU. The unit went into lockdown. The inmates surrounded us and threatened to kill and rape us. We gave them a warning to go back into their cells. They attacked us and Pete and I defended our lives while under lockdown for twelve hours.

Jack Gallagher

Our plan was to read from the statement, and if they started asking stupid questions, we'd give them the middle finger and leave.

We took Pete's car to the interview. They heard our statement and then started in with their stupid questions, as predictable as the rising sun. I read from my statement about six times until they got frustrated. Then they tried to tell me that Pete said something different, which I knew wasn't true. I finally got tired of it and asked, "Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"Then this interview is over," I said, getting up.

"You can't leave," Earl said, stepping in front of me.

"Yes I can, and I will remove any one of you that tries," I said, using the crazed look I knew I had developed from being locked in for twelve hours fighting off inmates. They stepped aside. "What did you think was going to happen when we were locked in with all those prisoners for twelve hours? Did you think they were going to ask us to play bridge? Sit for tea and chat about the gossip at the country club? You want another statement? Well, here it is. Twelve hours. You want to blame someone for the inmates getting hurt? Blame the idiot with no brain in the control room who unlocked all of the cells all at once. Blame your warden who left us for dead." I made my way towards the door.

"You can't leave," Earl repeated.

I liked Earl. I helped Earl out when Fifi was killed on my watch, but he was pissing me off. "You have my signed statement. If you have any questions, refer to the signed statement. If you don't like the signed statement, refer to my middle finger," I said and stuck it up in Earl's face. "If you don't like my middle finger, fire me."

When I walked out of the room, I saw Pete had gotten out at the same time. "How did yours go?"

"Probably about the same as yours. I stuck up my middle finger and walked out."

I laughed. "Come on, let's get the fuck out of here."

"Gallagher, Mariposa," Major Ashford, the cranky old bastard second in command in the prison, shouted and strode over to us.

We stopped and turned to face him.

"The warden wants to see your report."

"You want me to give the warden a report?" I asked, smiling. "Well, here it is. Twelve hours."

The major stopped, his mouth agape. Pete smiled. We turned and walked to Pete's car.

*****

At that point, I really didn't care if they fired me. No matter how many complaints the inmates wrote up about me, I was never called into the major's office to answer to them, nor did I see the warden again. I guess they didn't like my report.

Instead, they forced me into overtime every day for a month to make me have a breakdown so I would quit. It wasn't quite as bad as one would imagine, though, because when you just don't give a shit, there's nothing anyone can do to upset you.

They tried to take me off of third shift, for instance, and put me on first shift with all the dickheads.

The first day, they put me in the yard. It just so happened that one of the inmates who was in CCU during those twelve hours was in the yard with me that day. He huffed and puffed at me and got in my face and stared me down.

"What?" I shouted at him. "If you're going to do something, then just do it. I beat your ass once and you lived. You won't be so lucky today."

It took three officers to bring him down to SHU, and five to keep me from going after him.

"Aw, come on. I thought today was a great day for him to die," I shouted after them. The rest of the inmates in the yard looked at me. "Any of you want to die today too?" They put their heads down and went about their business.

The captain on the first shift, Captain Wolowitz, called me into his office.

"Why are you threatening to kill the inmates?" he asked.

"Why didn't you let me kill them?"

He looked at me, shocked. I had no beef with the captain, but I had to make him understand where my head was right at that moment. "Listen, they are trying to force me into overtime every day so they'll break me. I'll tell you what will be broken, though. Any prisoner who stands up to me and starts problems will not live to see another day, because I will snap the neck of anyone who even comes near me." I looked straight in the captain's eye. "That day, I could have snapped the necks of at least ten inmates, and I didn't, and now they are living their lives out here because I was a nice guy. The inmate that was huffing and puffing at me in the yard was one of them. They'll never get that second chance. I like you. I don't think you want me on your shift anymore. Not unless you want to supply me with twenty body bags every time I work for you."

I never got called back to first shift again. The COs realized everywhere I went, an inmate would challenge me to establish his own legendary status, because he would be the guy who avenged all the repressed inmates, so they stopped forcing me into overtime every day.

They separated Pete and me, as if pairing us up that night caused the whole riot. We did get to work together one more time. They put us in the truck outside the prison to control the perimeter and look for escapees. It was the only place where killing inmates was encouraged because of their "no-escape policy." Except for being in the towers to look for escapees to shoot, patrolling the perimeter was one of my favorite jobs in that shit hole. It was relaxing, and it was nice to have the chance to talk with my friend again.

"So, Gallagher," Pete started the conversation. "Where the fuck did you learn to fight like that?"

I laughed, flashing my light around the wall of the fourth quadrant as he drove the truck slowly around the perimeter. "The Bronx. Some martial arts. It was no different than a gang fight, except the inmates fight like pussies."

Pete laughed a short laugh and nodded. We shined the flashlight at one of the checkpoints. "You know," he said, "we received hand-to-hand combat training and weapons training in the Marines. When we saw action, I had my brothers around me, we had each other's backs, and a shit-load of guns and ammo. I don't think I want to be here anymore. Most of the other officers said I was lucky I was with you, because they would have fought their way to a cell and left me for dead."

I nodded.

"Besides, Lisa wants me to quit."

"So does my Dad."

"Why don't you?"

"Because I need the money."

"Are they giving you as hard of a time as they're giving me?"

"Yeah, but I don't give a shit."

Pete laughed. "Yeah, neither do I."

"Well, we survived twelve hours with those animals. Do they really think they are going to break me with their petty-anti shit? It's real simple. If they put me in CCU, they'll just need a lot of body bags."

Pete laughed again. "Yeah, same here."

Pete stopped the truck. He looked straight ahead into the night. "I think I'm going to do it. I'm going to quit."

I nodded. "What will you do?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll buy into one of those seminar deals. Sell my house, buy an RV, and travel the country doing seminars."

I smiled. "Seminars on what?"

"I don't know," he said. We laughed. "Anything. Life. Surviving. Being a better person."

"That sounds great."

"Yep. Just me and Lisa, hitting the open road."

We stared into the dark. "You know," Pete said, "with all my training, they couldn't have prepared me for what they said. I never had a guy tell me he was going to rape me." It still upset him, looking as shaken as he did when the inmates threatened us.

"Well, they didn't," I said.

"Thanks to you."

"Pete, I'm good, but I don't think I could have handled over a hundred men by myself. You saved me too."

That was the last time I got to see Pete. I had asked the CO what happened to him. They said he got transferred. Some time later, I heard a rumor that he got called for duty and was killed in a helicopter crash in a training exercise.

After that, the CO who hated my guts finally managed to set me up and fire me. I heard the words angry, crazy, and psycho a lot. Maybe I did have PTSD. Maybe I was a bit angry. I guess I flipped off too many commanding officers. I didn't think my actions were all that outrageous. It's not like I snapped anyone's neck or anything, and I didn't lock them in with over a hundred inmates for twelve hours.

I wish I could have stayed friends with Pete. It's hard, having a friend, and all you can see is the pain in his eyes because your face reminds him of the worst day in his life, so I never sought him out. I never chased down the truth of the rumor, that he died. I just hope with my heart it's not true.

Even now, after years have passed, I don't like talking about the riot. It's more than those horrible feelings when I realized I was going to be locked in and I was powerless to stop it, or the overwhelming emotions felt when I heard the click of the final door unlocking. When I talk about it too much, the nightmare moves to the front of my eyes, and I have to fight through it all over again. Most of all, when my eyes well up with tears, it's because I miss my friend Pete.

He saved my life too. When I think of the possibility that he died in a helicopter crash, I'm even sadder. To make myself feel better, I imagine instead he and his wife are living out of a beautiful RV, only the open road to answer to, standing in front of crowds of people and doing seminars to help people feel better about themselves. I feel happier, imagining that he is alive somewhere in the world, living out his dreams, and making the world a better place just because he's in it.

Dr. Jack Gallagher is a featured character in my upcoming novel, Inside Dweller: Book I: Genesis.

Keep in touch with me and I'll let you know when the book is coming out: I'll add you to my email list. It's kirsten dot schuder at gmail dot com. I'm looking for reviewers for this book also, so please contact me if you would like to review it when it comes out. Or, contact me about anything else. I'd love to hear from you.

Thank you to Erica Enders for providing the inspiration for this story.

Heat sizzles throngs of sweaty, impatient, lobster-red drag race fans looking for cheap paraphernalia, t-shirts, overpriced rubber hamburgers, soggy french-fries, half-warm sodas, and respite from the sun before their blood boils and their brains fry. Funny-cars rumble on the other side of the stands, shaking the inside of chest walls, jump-starting slow hearts into animation, quickening pulses, and annihilating sensitive ears. Burnouts produce smoke and the smell of burning rubber.

Atlanta June temperature, 95 degrees. Track temperature, 120 degrees.

My turn. I rev the engine and take it down the eighth-mile track until she runs nice and hot, then circle back to my spot where my trailer and tools are lying in wait. I park the car and jump out to get the reading. Let it sit for too long and the engine cools. Even the slightest bit will not give a true temperature reading. I spit on the engine heat-sink head. The spit bubbles and evaporates the moment it hits the head. Too lean. Adjust the high-speed needle again. Bring it out to the track for another run. Next spit test. The saliva bubbles for three seconds, then evaporates. Perfect. Now the low-speed needle. Now the idle.

"Hey, Jennie. I hear it's you and me first round. Good luck out there today."

Got to be fake. Okay, maybe just professional. Smile. "Yeah, thanks."

Last week, that same well-wisher complained to the officials, so I heard through the grapevine. He said I was cheating. The officials had no choice but to disassemble my car. They found nothing, naturally, which left me, the lone warrior, an hour to put my car back together before race time.

Good luck indeed. Sore loser is what he is. There are more women in racing. The league loves us because that opens up another demographic of race fans, but that doesn't mean we're accepted.

Don't worry about them. Worry about your car. Worry about your daughter who worries about you. Worry about all the people who told you you'd fail.

Quit, Dad said. Don't get into racing. You'll just fail. Sage advice given during the last supper in a restaurant.

Yeah, thanks a lot.

The rest of dinner's silence stretched into years.

My little girl Analei and I got into our packed-up car with our dogs and our cat sandwiched in between luggage and bags and pillows. We drove south in our mobile sardine can, away from the judgment burning holes in my back.

The memory rattles my insides like the thunder of the funny cars every time I tune my engine. My racing fuel. You will fail. I built my motor from the ground up. You will fail. I worked an extra job to put together the money for all the parts to increase my Camaro's horsepower. You will fail. I got my racing license. You will fail. I ran the money-race circuit to buy better parts. You will fail. I worked my way into the minor league. You will fail. I got the sponsors. You will fail. I made it to the national pro league.

Prostock is called to the staging lanes. I'm sweating rivers inside my fireproof suit and helmet. I hope Analei is watching the race on TV with Tamara, her favorite babysitter, who makes a thousand little braids in her hair with sparkle beads and bakes her crinkle cookies. The travel and heat are too much for her. The long stretches of road that gobble up time and money contain boredom instead of adventure for six-year-olds with an intolerance for sitting still.

I arrive to the staging area. My turn to burn out. Phase out the fans in the stand. Find that calm.

I do my burnout. Get the temperature high enough, and the tires will grab onto the track.

Pre-stage at the Christmas tree. I inch forward. My half of the blue circle lights up. The other half lights up to make a fully lit blue circle. My opponent has pre-staged.

The engine rumbles in the pit of my stomach.

Inch forward. I am staged. I set the line lock, which enables me to rev my car to 5,000 RPMs. Without the line lock, my brakes would not be able to handle the high RPMs and the car would launch.

My opponent stages.

The lights on the tree go amber, amber.

The third amber light, I press the line lock, gas pedal to the floor.

A fraction of a second later, green light.

Go.

My Camaro launches like a rocket. The front end lifts slightly. I focus on keeping the car straight down the track.

The past is behind me in waves of heat and clouds of smoke. A rush of adrenaline. I speed into stillness. Peace. Freedom.

My precious little Analei soars past me with golden curly cues and sprouted wings, the crystalline future in her sky-blue eyes.

Floating, powerful, my steel horse hurtles towards the finish line.