La bête et sa cage

I've killed someone again. I'm a serial killer. All right, two bodies is a small series, but it's a series nonetheless. And I'm young. Who knows where opportunity will lead me? For four days, my universe has been reduced to an isolation cell. My lawyer says writing this all down will help me kill time. My writings, he says, are pure candy for the psychiatrists. So I'll tell the truth, my truth. They can give it to the judge, the jury, and a publisher. I bet it'll be a long trial and a good book.

My life inside began with a simple, passive philosophy: when it comes to sodomy, I just wait for it to pass. The colossus who decided I was his darling was nicknamed Papillon - butterfly - not for his gentle nature, but for the butterfly knife he used to blind his girlfriend in one eye. He was a lieutenant for Bizoune, the big boss, so being his property afforded me a certain protection. Everyone else had to keep their hands off. It was a humiliating existence, but tolerable. I aspired to establish professional relationships, not sexual ones. I knew I was a criminal genius, maybe even a genius, period. It's something you can feel. And I could feel it strongly. One day, I would brandish my successes and my tattoos in the world's face.

The prison wing was a menagerie of misfits, a protection unit for inmates with mental health issues. It was an injustice, locking me up with cuckoos instead of letting me make contacts in the normal sectors. We were divided into two clans. On one side, Bizoune the Almighty, a calculating strategist with a gaze like a leopard, ran the drug and cellphone trade. Under him were his right-hand man, Denis, and my lover, Papillon, the muscle. Facing them were the Blacks: Molosse, who'd learned his trade refereeing dog fights, and his henchmen. They ran the pimping and handled contracts for beatings and murders. I dreamed of rapping in Creole with them, but I was told to stay with my own race. From Wu-Tang to the Ku Klux, it's all the same, just the need for a clan.

My first chance to prove my worth came as an order from on high. Bizoune needed to increase the supply of pills, and I was tasked with getting a prescription. I put on the performance of a lifetime for my correctional officer, Edith, listing the symptoms of depression I'd memorized from a book in the prison library. She was young, earnest, and believed in rehabilitation. I saw something else in her, a future. A prison romance. It was a twisted affection, but as I thought of her, the idea of love wove itself a cocoon somewhere between my guts and my heart. The thought of her even brought tears to my eyes during my medical evaluation, convincing the doctor to prescribe me a cocktail of powerful drugs. I had succeeded. I was useful.

My ambition, however, put me in a precarious position. To elevate my status, I had my cellmate, Philippe the Philippin, give me a massive samurai tattoo on my back. It was an investment in my reputation, but it came with a five-hundred-dollar debt to Molosse. The threat hung over me, a promise of a savage beating if I didn't pay up within a week. Just as the pressure mounted, my moment arrived. Bizoune summoned me to his cell. He told me I had guts. He told me he had a delicate contract for me, one only I could pull off. He wanted me to kill Papillon.

The plan was a masterpiece of prison politics. A stolen butter knife, sharpened into a deadly shiv, was passed to me during a staged diversion. But when the moment came in the showers, I improvised. Papillon was bent over a sink, about to snort a line of crushed Seroquel from a hollowed-out pen. I lunged, not with the shiv, but with my fists, driving the plastic tube through his nasal cavity and deep into his brain. He didn't die - not then - but collapsed into a coma, his mind shattered. I tossed the shiv to the other inmate present, Timoune, framing him perfectly. The plan worked. I was promoted. I now ate at Bizoune's table.

My new status, however, was only a stepping stone to a far grander scheme. Bizoune revealed his true plan: a helicopter escape, just like in the movies. My role was critical. I was to take Edith hostage, creating a diversion that would allow him to reach the inner courtyard for his extraction. I was torn between my ambition and my twisted love for her. But I saw a way to have it all. I would follow his plan, but at the last moment, I would escape, too, taking Edith with me. We would start a new life together, funded by the mob. It was a perfect plan, born of a genius mind.

The day arrived. As Edith unlocked the office door, I lunged, throwing her inside and barricading us in. The alarm blared. The negotiator's voice echoed from a megaphone. But inside, there was only us. I told her my plan, that I was there for her, for us. She trembled, her eyes wide with what I took for overwhelmed passion. In that chaotic, desperate moment, our bodies came together. It was violent and raw, a consummation of months of pent-up desire that I saw as the ultimate act of love. As the tactical squad battered down the door, I held her, whispering, “I love you.”

They dragged me back to the hole, but this time, everything was different. Papillon's family had taken him off life support; he was dead. And Bizoune, the great strategist, had betrayed me. To save himself, he denied everything, claiming I acted alone, a crazed psychopath. The mob has a contract on my head. Edith has a restraining order against me, and my lawyer is preparing to argue I suffer from erotomania and should be sent to a psychiatric institute. They think they have me caged for good. But I will get out. I have a mother and a woman to find. I will escape, and I will finish my list of vengeance. If you thought I was dangerous before, you haven't seen anything yet.