Chapter Text
Sitting at the end of the corridor, illuminated by only a flickering light bulb and occasionally the flashlight of one of our men, had been what many referred to as Sparky, or Bolt, or in rare cases, even the Baconator. We'd all made cracks about the power bill, how Warden Leto would cook his Thanksgiving dinner that very autumn, and we all sure either snickered or laughed a few times, all in unison, whenever such a joke was said. Even now, I can't help but chuckle when I recall the mornings when one of my old pals would yell, "Hey, what's cooking today?" and lick his lips to provide emphasis. Good moments they were, for inmates and guards alike.
However, there's no denying that we - as human beings - tend to make fun of the things that frighten us, yet can't be gotten away from. We only managed to chortle at such gruesome matters for the sole purpose of coping with death and giving death away, and for the ones who actually had to sit down in that chair, the humor left the situation as quickly as it'd arrived. Over my time presiding execution after execution at Jersey's own Mountainview State Penitentiary, I've come to know that for most of those men, the truth finally hit all the way home when their legs were being clamped to Sparky's own. Came then was the realization that their own pair had alas reached the end of their careers. The muscles were still strong and the blood still ran in them, but they were finished, all the same; never will they go to walk another mile or dance with another girl (or man) at a local bar. Sparky's clients came to a knowledge of their deaths from the ankles up. All that was left was the black silk bag we pulled over their heads after they'd finished their rambling and mostly garbled last remarks, supposedly for them. It was really for us though, as I've always thought, to keep us from seeing the awful course of dismay in their eyes as they died with their knees bent.
But, just how in the world do I know this, you may ask?
Well, I worked in death row. For years, I was faced with six cells, all bland and grey, and occupied by the most dangerous set of criminals. From what I know (I can't be certain if there had been any alterations since my departure), there were three cells on each side of a wide center aisle, each almost twice as big as the cells in the other four blocks. Singles, too. But, no matter how great of an accommodation I personally found them to be, the inmates would've much rather traded for cells in any of the other four. And trust me, they would have traded at any chance they got.
Never a time during my years as a prison guard were all six cells were occupied at one time, and boy, do I thank God for it. Four was the most, and that itself already had been like quicksand to me. It almost swallowed me whole, I tell you - who knows how I managed to make it through that entire year and a half - so when you're face to face with colleagues who can't care any less than the charges do, and charges that just care too much, it dramatically worsens. I don't think anyone could've accepted that, though with a job like mine, acceptance was key; trying to steer clear and stay clean really wasn't worth it since there was no fool-proof way of avoiding havoc, skirmishes, chaos, coming to blows. There were times when the air in there was so tight that I believed I was going to suffocate my way to death. There were times where I found myself breaking a few noses and breaking a few rules. There were times when the only thing 'honesty' cut was someone's life short. It all lies in the book, and I guess this is why I'm bothering to write one.
The wide corridor up the center of death row was floored with linoleum the color of albino mice. It ran approximately sixty long paces from south to north, bottom to top. At the bottom was the restraint room. At the very top was a T-junction. A left turn was equivalent to life - if you called what went on in the exercise yard life, as many did. Thieves and arsonists and sex criminals, all talking their talk, walking their walk, and making a last attempt to complete the little deals with whoever it was that they believed in.
A right turn, now - that was different. First, you went into my office and crossed in front of my desk, flanked by the American flag and the state flag. On the far side were two other doors: one led into the small W.C. that I and the others used; the other opened on a storage shed of some sort. That was where you ended up if you were destined to walk the line.
To the left side of the storage shed was what you could interpret - again - as life. Tools lined the walls, dry goods and sacks of seeds for spring planting in the prison gardens lay on the floor, boxes of toilet paper - it was a mini Bulk Barn, almost, minus the bargains and the Swedish Fish.
On the right - again - was death. Head down three cement steps, and you'd find Bolt resting up on a platform at the corner of the store room; stout walnut legs, broad walnut arms that had so eerily welcomed the petrified sweat of convicts in the last few minutes of their lives, and the metal cap, hung exuberantly on the back of the chair like a robot's cap from a Sunday comic strip. A cord ran from it and through a hole in the brick wall beneath the platform. A tin bucket was off to one side with a sponge swimming inside it, trimmed to fit the cap. Before the execution, it was moistened with saline to better conduct the charge of direct-current electricity that ran through the wire, through the sponge, and into the criminal's brain. But hey, enough about Sparky - I think she's had a good deal of attention for now, hasn't she? - and instead, let's hop on to something a bit more intriguing. Something that has bitterly left me hanging on a thread ever since.
For a majority of my time on the line, I don't believe I ever felt the need to query the nature of my occupation. It was simple; you give the condemned what they deserve, and everything evens out. We all knew that it was only the foundation of justice, and with it at the front of our minds whilst we worked, our contribution [to justice] stood strongly. Had I not had the luck to come to realistic terms with it, it would still not be wavering today. Thankful or upset, I don't know how to feel. Partially because a large part of me says that realization was for the best, I guess how I came down to it is by far more surprising. And believe me, it's quite a long, long story to tell.
---
Christmas Eve was the day Iero arrived. It was an odd day of the year to receive a new inmate, even odder to be spending your day the same way you do on weekdays, but oddities were anything but unusual in such a dreadful place. If someone were to sprout a second head on their shoulder, no one would be surprised enough to bat an eye. Presumably, that was why it was Gabriel Saporta, a fellow guard on the same shift as I had, that had been sent to usher him onto death row. We all knew Saporta wasn't suited for the job - you could get him a pair of trousers tailored two sizes too small and he'd suit that better - but yet he was lugging relentlessly at the boy's handcuffs and was beaming brighter than the sun possibly could've when he came, especially during that time of year.
"Gerard," he called, skipping down the hallway. "We've got someone new!"
"Great. Adds on to the damnation we've got 'round here," I said and frowned, almost mechanically. Many people in the world can hide their emotions so well that it seems as if they have none at all, but sadly, I was not one of them. Instead, my feelings appear smack on the face, automatically and without consent.
"C'mon," he gibed. "We haven't gotten a new prisoner in months!"
"Yeah, and I was hoping it'd stay that way," I muttered, stepping aside so Saporta could lead the kid in. I'd been standing in front of the cell that would soon be occupied by the new prisoner, and Saporta, not giving half a rat's arse when it came to caring, shoved the inmate inside where he belonged. The force was unexpected and sent him staggering a bit, but he regained his balance in time to not go flying towards the floor. With that, he perched himself up upon the bed, pulled his knees towards him, and rested his head on his arms.
Grabbing the clipboard Gabe had left for me, I studied both him and his forms with great interest. The first thing I did was look him up and down to register his height (mhm, definitely five foot six), as well as his weight, which had been given as a hundred-fifteen. I also gave his profile a quick skim-over, and noted that his case was nothing too special; the name was Frank Anthony Iero Jr., aged nineteen, charged with first degree murder, perjury, a few others; the works. And beneath the space for scars and identifying marks, one word had been blocked out in the laborious printing of the warden, the old trusty in registration: numerous.
In comparison to all of those that have arrived onto my section of the prison, he was rather peculiar. He was skinny and pale and frail; the things he was given just didn't seem to fit; the blue slacks had been rolled up to fit, the jacket kept falling off his shoulder, even the handcuffs look as if they were about to slip off his hands on their own. It was a simple equation from there on: no handcuffs = prisoner escapes = lost job for a particular guard = no money. That was worse than the fear of a serial killer or sadist on the lose, for some. But he wasn't going to do anything like that, and I was sure of it. It wasn't too common, of course, gaining that kind of knowledge from a first glance at someone who was staring the death penalty straight in the eye, but I just knew and was too stubborn to be told otherwise. You can call me crazy, stupid, the world's second biggest idiot since George Bush is first (unless you're cruel enough to say I have outdone him) - I'll even admit that a few years of working in state prisons can drive you a little nuts! Though, I can only tell you that I truly, a hundred percent believed he was lost. Once he entered his cell, he just kept looking around as if to make out where he was. Maybe even who he was. It stroke a chord, y'know, so strange and unfamiliar, and things just seem to came together when his eyes suddenly shifted their gaze from the floor to me.
Like a deer caught in headlights, I was rattled from the inside out. The glimpse lasted for merely a second before he was focused on something new, but the second when our eyes locked was enough for me to beg for a second look. Foolery is what it all looks to be, I understand, and it wasn't like I could've gotten him to snap his attention back to me, anyway. By then, he begun studying all the things that laid behind the bars, like a man on a mission, despite that there wasn't much to analyze. Mindlessly, I started pondering how long it would take until he went insane from doing so, and the prison layout's great resemblance to a mental institution wasn't much help there. Gabe's abrupt absence from the room, however, was wonderful assistance. I had a clue as to where he disappeared to (he had an enfeebling habit of clicking his heels like Dorothy all the way down to the storage room to do what he referred to as 'retrieving supplies' [and what I called 'laziness and 'slacking off']), but didn't bother chasing after him. Alternatively, I'd taken it as a chance to walk up to Iero, prepared to do what I had to get done.
"Am I going to have any issues with you?" I asked.
He shook his head slowly - once to the left, once to the right, then back to the center - and he was right about that. I wasn't going to have any issues with him, not so soon, not with Gabriel having 'problematic' written in such bold font on his forehead. Saporta was the larger deal, I reckoned. So goddamn large that I could just taste the tang of trouble on the tip of my tongue when his voice rang through the block, yelling "Oh, what a bore!" at the two of us. No, scratch that - not at 'us.' it wasn't meant to be directed at me. Although he at last decided it was time to get out of what hole he climbed inside of, he'd taken his hickory baton along with him, and the purpose behind it was obvious. Tapping it against one palm, the same way a man does when he has a toy he wants to use, he contemptuously smiled. "We've got a dumb one this time!" he added, and I think that's enough for you to conclude who that statement was for.
Perhaps he was trying to put in a little joke (one of crude essence), trying to make an old fart like me laugh, but I wasn't the least bit amused. As a prison guard, you're awarded with a fair amount of credibility, but don't seem to get much respect - in this case, from coworkers a couple of legs beneath you. Still, the only person who didn't get any of either was Gabe himself, and it's quite ironic, really. Being the governor's nephew, you'd think he'd be looked up to from all possible angles, but his colleagues weren't ones to take in much shit. No matter how patient I can be, he was the sort of person that deprived you from all the stoicism you managed to store up over the years. And suddenly, I just couldn't stand to have him there. Maybe it was the unseasonable cold, maybe it was the amount of gel he overused that day, maybe it was all of those things. Whatever it was, I stopped giving a hoot about his political connections.
"Gabe." I was trying my hardest to bottle up my anger. "The rest of the guys are moving house over in the infirmary."
"And?" A sneering Saporta titled his nose upwards and away from me. "Ray's in charge of that detail - "
"I know he is," I snapped. "Go and help him."
"That isn't my job," said Saporta. "This big goon is my job." 'Goon' was his special name saved for the big ones, and I think he just thought it was hilarious in this case since Iero was shorter than he was. He felt resentment towards the convicts who were taller than him - "that large build could've been put up for better use; I'd swap if I could and become a goddamn basketball player," as he once said - yet pitied those who couldn't match up to his 6.4 feet. Gabe was also what people call a banty-rooster sort of guy, the kind that likes to pick fights, especially when the odds are all their way. And vain about his hair, too, if I didn't mention that already. Could hardly keep his hands off it.
"Then your job is done." My voice was stern. "Get your butt over to the infirmary."
His lower lip pooched out. Ray Toro and his men were moving boxes and stacks of sheets, even the beds; the whole infirmary was going to a new frame building over on the west side of the prison. Hot work, heavy lifting. Gabe Saporta and his pansy ass wanted no part of either.
"They got all the men they need," he whined.
"Then get over there and straw-boss." I raised my voice, knowing precisely what my actions could've led to, yet I paid no attention. If the governor ordered the warden to fire me for ruffling the wrong set of feathers, who was going to be put in my place? Gabe? It was a joke. "I really don't care what you do, as long as you get out of here."
For a moment I thought he was going to stick and there'd be real difficulties, with Iero sitting there the whole time like a stopped clock. Then, he groaned and went stalking up the hall, pouting his entire heart out. I don't remember which guard was sitting at the duty desk that day - one of the floaters, probably - but Saporta mustn't have liked the way he looked, because he growled, "You wipe that smirk off your face or I'll wipe it off for you" as he went by. There was a rattle of keys, a momentary blast of cold wind from the exercise yard, and he was gone, at least for the time being.
I reverted my attention to the boy.
"If I take those chains off you, are you going to be nice?"
He nodded. It was like his head-shake: down, up, back to square one. There was a kind of peace in his eyes, but not a kind I was sure I could trust. Regardless, I crooked a finger to the floater, who came in and unlocked the chains.
Taking a deep breath, I settled myself for the little set speech I have and make to people new on the block. I hesitated with Iero for a minute or two, because he seemed seemed so abnormal. There's always a few loose ends that wash up here and there, but what was so concerning was that he didn't seem to be there, even though he physically was in my presence.
When the guard stood back (Frank had remained motionless during the entire unlocking ceremony, as placid as a Percheron), I looked up at my new charge, tapping on the clipboard with my thumb, and said: "Can you talk?" If he couldn't, then Saporta would've cashed in on his pride.
Luckily, he nodded. "Y-yes, sir," he mumbled, voice raspy and soft, like he'd just come down with a terrible cold from the weather we've been getting. He sounded educated - a bit overly educated for what he'd been reported as, a dropout, as I later found out - but he also lacked great professionalism. In his speech as in so many other things, he was a mystery, and it was his eyes that continued to bother me most. It was like he was floating far, far away as we spoke.
"Your name is Frank Iero," I said.
"Yes, I - um, no, not really."
I raised an eyebrow. "No? Then what is it?"
"I - Iero," he confirmed. "Eye-ear-oh." I'd completely butchered his surname.
"Alright, alright. So you can spell, can you? Read and write?"
"Yes, sir," he said.
I jotted that down before concluding I would then give him a short version of my set speech. I already decided he wasn't going to cause any fuss, and in that, I was both right and wrong.
"My name is Gerard Way," I told him. "I'm the super. If you want something, ask for me by name. If I'm not here, ask the other men. Or, more specifically, you ask for Mr. Collins or Mr. Toro. Got it?"
He returned back to his nodding.
"Don't expect to get what you want unless we decide it's what you actually need, though. This isn't a hotel, remember. Still with me?"
He nodded again.
"This is a quiet place. It's not like the rest of the prison, and right now, it's just you and Bryar over there." I gestured towards the fifth cell, housing a blonde man convicted of murdering his girlfriend after a heated argument. Currently, he was dozing away. Iero didn't get to know the details. "You won't work; mostly you'll just sit. Gives you a chance to think things over." Too much time for most of them, but I didn't say that. "Sometimes, we play the radio, if all's in order. You like the radio?"
Doubtfully, as if he wasn't sure what the radio was, he nodded.
"If you behave, you'll eat on time, you'll never see the solitary cell down at the far end, or have to wear one of those button-up-the-back canvas coats. You'll have two hours in the yard afternoons from four until six, except on Saturdays when the rest of the prison population has their football games. You'll have your visitors on Sunday afternoons, if you have someone who wants to visit you. Do you, Iero?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Well, your lawyer, then."
"He won't be able to find his way up here."
At first I thought he might've been kidding or some sort, but looking closely, he didn't seem to be. It's not like I'd expected any different. Appeals weren't for the likes of such a troubled youth, not back then; they had their day in court and the world forgot them until they saw a squib in the paper saying a certain fellow had taken a little electricity along about midnight. But someone without even friends to look forward to on Sunday afternoons made control look to be a problem. Here it didn't, and I suppose that was good, since he was so damned mystifying.
He shifted a little on the bunk and I backed away respectfully. Clasping my hands, I told him, "Whether your time here is easy or not depends on you. You might as well make it easy on all of us, since it ends the same. You'll be treated as as good as you deserve; no more, no less. Do you have any questions?"
"How many watts are the lights around here?" Iero asked right away, as if he'd only been waiting for the chance.
I blinked, and it'd gone so far as to make that floater blink, too. A lot of odd questions I've been asked by newcomers - once about the size of my wife's tits, in which I couldn't help but respond with the fact that I was as single as I'd ever be - but never that one.
He looked up at me for the first time during our conversation, and immediately yet unwillingly began elaborating. "I - I - it's because it's just so bright, and I - I'm not really used to it," he explained. I had to strain myself to hear him. "I've always slept with the darkness, and it's a lot more comforting."
Looking at him - the pure size of him - I felt strangely touched. They did touch you, you know; you didn't see them at their worst, hammering out their horrors like demons at a forge.
"Sorry, that's out of my limits." I gave him a little shrug. "But I can say it's brightly lit in here all night long, and half the lights along the line burn from nine 'till five every morning." Then I realized he wouldn't have any idea of what I was talking about - he didn't know what the hell the goddamn 'line' was - and so I pointed. "In other words, the corridor."
Disappointed, he nodded, and I offered him my hand. Never in my life had I done such a thing with a jailbird, and even now, I'm not sure why. Him asking about the lights, maybe, and soon, his empty, echoey footsteps came into notice. He'd gotten up from his seat and walked over to me, head down, and had taken my hand with a trembling kind of gentleness. They were ice cold and wouldn't stop shaking, even after disappearing into mine, but that was all of it. I had a moth in my killing bottle. We were done.
I backed away and into my office. Iero stood where he was a minute or two longer, as if he didn't know what to do next, then sat back down on his bunk. There, he clasped his hands between his knees, lowered his head like a man who grieves or prays, and said something then. Somehow, I managed to have heard it with perfect clarity, and in spite of not knowing much about what he'd done then - you don't need to know about what a man's done in order to feed him and groom him until it's time for him to pay off what he owes - it still give me a chill.
"I tried to stop, but it was too late," he said. "It was too late."