The Letters From Hell series written by guest poster Screedler were the most visited and read posts of the old Drupal powered TDA. Unbeknowst to me, the links to this series were broken in my switch to a WordPress platform so to make up for it I will post the whole series again one new one per day.
Welcome to part 6 of Letters from Hell. This is the shortest letter in the series, but brings back some of the worst memories of my time in jail. If ever I need a reason to stay sober; I just have to think back on this. Click here to read all the prior installments of the series.
May 29, 2006
Warning – do not let Nan read this letter. I am so filled with hate and anger I am barely able to write this letter. My last letter cost me 17 items. That is how much they stole from me as I wrote Dad and Sarah a letter yesterday morning. It was the only time I had ventured outside my cell since we got store Saturday morning. I had gone down to the common area so I could have a table to write on. I was down for about an hour and a half. When I came back, I had been robbed.
I know it’s only $20 worth of stuff but it is the only thing you have got in here. It’s not only the fact that I was stolen from and do not have the things that make it the least bit more bearable in here; but there is also the shame that you have allowed yourself to be taken advantage of. A feeling that you are weak.
I was so mad last night that I became physically ill with a stomach ache and the worst headache I have ever had. Worse than any hangover I have ever had.
My head pounded. I could only think thoughts of hate.
I do not know for certain who stole from me, but I have a pretty good idea. If I find out for sure; you may not hear from me for a while.
After I was robbed I had to endure insult after injury watching the gang walk around eating and betting on cards with my food. I have never been so angry in my life. Never.
I prayed to God that he would send the offenders to Hell. I prayed to Satan that he would make sure they suffered for their sins. I seriously thought of ways to kill or maim the guilty for life. I thought about getting a contraband paper clip from one of my cellmates, waiting till the middle of the night while the pig is asleep, and jabbing the unfolded clip through his closed eyelid and as far into the socket as it would go. I thought about hanging out by the door to our cell; tripping him and shoving him down the stairs. Praying that he might break his neck. I have thought these things and many more.
If they keep on pushing me; and I think they will, I am going to break.
This place is killing me inside – no good will come of it.
I did not sign this letter (awkward to sign off saying “Love, Screedler” – after all that) and almost did not mail it to Paul; but he insisted. He was afraid someone might find it. Perhaps even the thieves, and then what. I could have flushed it, but at the time I thought it conveyed my feelings more than I could communicate verbally on the phone and I really wanted someone to know. Besides, you could rarely speak in confidence on the phone as anyone within earshot was eager to listen in.
I still believe that is the maddest I have ever been in my life. Not so much mad over a handful of honey buns, potato chips, and jolly ranchers as I was at the embarrassment and shame it caused me. Other people were stolen from, but not with the audacity and frequency they stole from me. As you will see in later letters I suffered theft on a regular basis. By the end of my jail stay I quit getting any sizable “store” as it would only get stolen and what little did get stolen I learned not to worry about.
I don’t write about it in my letters, but I began sabotaging some of my food and mixing it in with my “store”. I would share the nature of the tainting (that’s a pleasant word for it and kind of accurate) with a “friend” after the fact (theft) and soon everyone would know. Let’s just say that someone got a little extra goodness (yuck!) on their pilfered hard candy than they thought. Only the new and uninformed (or extremely hungry) would target my stuff in the end.
You may wonder why I described my headache and stomach ailment as worse than any hangover I had ever had. I never had bad hangovers; because of the fact that I drank all the time. If I started having the effects of a hangover I quickly consumed the proper amount of “medicine” to allay them. Now; I would get the shakes and be unable to eat from time to time – but hey you get used to that as an alcoholic.
As far as any good ever coming out of my jail experience, I have to admit I was wrong. Not only did I get good and sober in there (physically at least), it has taught me to appreciate the little things in life – like enjoying a good untainted jolly rancher.
I am still working on the mental part of staying sober and that is why I am posting these letters.
Stay tuned for part 7; where Detroit and his kin make another appearance, some extreme gang politics are explored, and the telltale smell of prison sex is described.