A LIFE WORTH TAKING

Desesperación Penitenciaria, Monterrey, Mexico. 

Solitary Confinement

In the flickering shadows of darkness, sat an animal. His face was battle-tested, slender, sharp and wholly covered by worn-out green gang tattoos which superficially failed to camouflage a marsh of acne craters that were shotgun sprayed recklessly across both sides of his aching jaw and swollen cheeks. His head, naturally balding and also tattooed, ached painfully and was riddled with fresh wounds from a recent rendezvous with an onslaught of pitiless Mexican guard batons. By anyone’s standards, he was an ugly man who had lush detracting unkempt eyebrows that menacingly protruded over his thick cro-magnon like forehead which seemed to provide a safe-haven for his black beady soulless eyes. Eyes that appeared too close together; eyes that were empty, cold and deadly and mirrored the predatory gape of a great white shark. The tatted tears imprinted at the corners of each of his eyes only complimented the menacingly complex wonder that was his dull green painted, clown-like face. Yet, his most distinct facial feature was, by far, the overbite of his front two teeth which made him rodent esque in appearance. It didn’t help that this countenance was even more pronounced when he was agitated for (when filled with violent anticipation) his nose would twitch, uncontrollably, seconds before unleashing his many different forms of sadistic brutality. That, unmistakable, twitching nose was legendary in certain dark cartel circles and if ever ill-fatedly witnessed; it was likely the last thing you ever saw. This was the only tell he had as a merciless sicario who kidnapped, tortured and murdered at the bidding of several ruthless Mexican drug lords through the 1980’s and 90’s. Though no one ever dared say it to his face, he was known as ‘La Rata’ (The Rat) and his violent exploits were, no less than, legendary but that had been a long time ago. 

As a grubby teenager growing up in the unforgiving slums of Medellin, Columbia, nothing was ever given and so he acquired the aptitude of takingwhich paired well with his voracious keenness for violence. Violence had always served his desire to take and so those two traits, within him, fed off one another. As he grew older his nefarious reputation caught the eye of a certain barbaric cartel drug lord by the name of Diablo Espinoza and he was immediately recruited and trained in the Sicario creed of merciless intimidation, brutality, torture, and murder. In doing so, this emboldened and fueled his unquenchable passion for taking anything and everything he wanted—without repercussion. With his growing reputation, as a stone cold trained sadistic assassin, taking became easier and easier to do. It was, in fact, his drug of choice and he had a ravenous appetite for it. Women, money, cars, weapons, drugs—he took whatever he wanted and if he couldn’t take your property, he would take your life, if he couldn’t take your life, then he would take the life of the ones you loved and when he did…he took extreme pleasure in taking your very will to live. One way or another, if he wanted something from you, he would simply take it—because he could. As long as he was taking, he felt alive and it mattered little who paid the price. Needless to say, nothing good resided in him. For the things, he had done and the things that he had brutally taken in his lifetime of wickedness had long since hurled his eternal spirit into the furthest reaches of an irredeemable chasm which had long been buried in the furthest most unreachable bowels of the deepest darkest abyss of immoral treachery and human depravity. 

He was in his mid-fifties and that was ancient for a man of his profession. It mattered very little now that he was confined to the cold cement and callous metal of solitary confinement. He'd be no use outside these walls anyway as he recognized he was no longer the sprightly killer he once was. He had lost his usefulness to the cartels but not his unappeasable thirst for taking. But taking was difficult—given his many years of incarceration. For all his sins, he would forever reside here in ‘La caja’ (translated ‘The box’) which was the name given to the haunted solitary cell block of Desesperación Penitenciaria; one of Mexico’s most notorious prisons. And oh how ‘La caja’ had a way of assuring a man of eminent death; a painstaking death that was in no way in a hurry to greet you. Now, sitting silently in the flickering shadows of his cell, on his cold metal toilet, he waited for the grumbling within his tatted aged belly to release his most recent ‘taken’ prize and while doing so, he listened to the relentless maddening musical soundtrack of the other men losing their grip on reality; whispering, screaming or crying. “Hijo de puta!” echoed the words of an inmate, cursing the guards as another man moaned “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” in emotional agony. He listened intently as the jingle of keys and the reverberation of footsteps passed his steel cell door which had a built-in stippled glass panel (the width of half his face) at the top for viewing in or out, a voice box for verbal communication, and at the very bottom was a tray slot to receive food and medication. The jingling keys, the footsteps, the moans, the yelling and crazy laughter all mixed with the morning’s sounds of its high-pitched metal sliding and whining cell doors, opening and closing cages which all culminated in a soul-piercing final…“kh-khaat!”.  And so it went; over and over again…‘La caja’ played her Greatest Hits.

He was now well acquainted with the unrelenting twisted psychological cyclical mental voyage ‘La Caja’ offered its guests in the way of excessive human detachment, boredom and the dubious, unrelenting ‘mente cogida’ treatment it dished out on an hourly basis. Each solitary space with its cold, paint peeled cement walls with the relentless echo of dripping pipes, flickering lights combined with prisoner groans and screams often led the toughest of hombres down the path of predictable stages of thickened psychotic episodes. Like clock-work, he could anticipate and recognize the next phase of ‘La Caja's’ torment upon any given prisoner as each punched their ticket aboard their own personalized crazy train.  On many occasions, you could hear his hard-hearted laughter directed at their weakness for he could foresee his fellow prisoners begin to succumb to their own death a mile away. First, a man would experience unending boredom and exasperation, then maddening anger, then paranoia, then terror, then uncontrollable rage followed by physical self-inflicted violence, exhaustion and then (finally) broken mortal despair. Rinse and repeat until you are no more. ‘La Caja’ would have her way. 

He had heard it every night, and every day (for the past eleven years) those haunted screams of lesser men, they too, in their damp, cold and unforgiving 6’x 9’ solitary cells. They were all unredeemable forgotten men; all waiting to die. Half would kill themselves and the others well, they would simply go mad. That was the honest truth of solitary confinement in one of the most disreputable penitentiaries in all the world. The only thing that kept him from taking his own horrid train ride down the darkest deepest most horrific dwelling place of despair was a ferocious revulsion, abhorrence and vile hatred for all mankind and his deep darkest desires…to take. The thought of taking kept him mentally alive and to keep him sane he laughed at others in response to yet another man relinquishing their spirit to ‘La Caja’. He would even cheer them on, goad and encourage the frailest of men to kill themselves. When their cells finally fell dead silent he’d snicker victoriously, shake his head, give the catholic cross signal with his right hand over his heart and then blow a kiss. This made him feel powerful, like a god, because even from his stony cage, he still could take a life. This place would kill others but not him…‘Cogida que!’. ‘Fuck that.’

Amid the usual melancholy prison background noise, flickering lights and cold dampness of his cell he felt his bowels release violently into the metal toilet with a gurgling flatulent splat and he snorted pleasingly with anticipation. With great eagerness, he turned his face into the bowl of stench and scanned the putrid mound of stool intently with beady animalistic eyes and then, more thoroughly, with his tatted dirty fingers. He searched the fetid rancorous mushy contents until he found what he was looking for. Alas, he beheld the gold shimmering, diamond studded band between his fingers, rinsed it in the free standing toilet water and screamed out loud, laughing victoriously.  He rose from his position and rinsed his prize more thoroughly in the sink and then washed his hands. It had been some years since he had been successful in really taking anything of monetary value but oh this day, this glorious day…he got his prize and it had been worth every baton hit to the face, body, and head. "Yeeeeees, I gotchu Malparido!” He cackled in his cell as he recalled the beautiful implementation of his most recent and most flawless plan to take…once more.  

Forty-eight hours prior he had feigned his own death. He lied motionless partially on his bed and floor for almost six hours, curled over onto his stomach and like the poisonous banana spider—he patiently waited for his prey. Felix Patron was the lead guard and was as foul-mouthed as he was corrupt. He knew much about ‘La Rata’ as well as his legendary ruthless reputation for violence but did not fear the man. Felix enjoyed the power of his position that he hung (teasingly) over him. So every chance he could, he poked, prodded and tried to intimidate his prisoner. One thing he always did was press his middle finger against the stippled-glass panel window each time he passed the old man’s solitary cage which was multiple times a day and he would always yell out “Malparido!” and each time he did so, the old assassin fantasized of his revenge because on Felix’s taunting middle finger was a beautiful shiny gold diamond studded ring and he was determined to find a way to TAKE it. So as the guards came into his cell, that fateful morning, Felix haphazardly, reached in to check the prisoner's pulse and in a flash, he saw the perceived dead man’s nose twitch nervously but by then it was too late. Felix’s hand was now in the death-grip of a madman who precipitously bit down hungrily at the base of his index and middle fingers which snapped quite easily (like carrot sticks) in 'La Rata's' mouth. It all happened within seconds. A shriek of the most agonizing blood-curdling horror escaped from within Felix as his blood and fingers dribbled from the crazed inmate's mouth which slapped and splattering onto the cement cell floor like chubby lil' smokies’ in a crimson sauce. With a vice-like grip, La Rata proceeded to suck feverishly on the wounded nub of Felix’s hand until he felt the ring enter his mouth and quickly swallowed hard. He then smiled a blood gummed soaked victorious smile just as several Mexican guard batons came crashing down upon his head—and then there was complete darkness. 

Felix Patron’s retribution and reckoning came a few months later when he was, finally, well enough to return to work. Fortunately, for him, his fingers had been scooped up by a quick-thinking guard and were immediately put on ice. His digits were surgically sewn back on that very same day. He now had seventy percent of movement and feeling back in his hand and was getting better every day. However, his ring was lost, he was sure of that. The guards, over the past months, had failed to find it anywhere during frequent cell searches.  When Felix returned to his post he made sure that the aged hitman received several random beatings and rationed his food to nothing for nearly nine weeks. When Felix was convinced that his notorious prisoner was good and hungry he captured a large rodent and beat it to death, wrapped it’s bloodied, motionless body in a corn tortilla, put it on a plate and pushed it through the tray slot of his enemy’s thick cell door and through the voice box, said “TOMA ESO Malparido!” and then he offered up his healed middle finger through the built-in stippled glass panel window and walked away—laughing violently to himself. 

From his cot, the old battered rat-faced man gingerly sat up burning with an abyss of both anger and troubling hunger; a hunger he had never quite known before that combined with a simmering fury of vile deprivation which disoriented his mind and tormented his very being. He was emaciated, weak and physically broken. Felix was still having him randomly beaten and his body ached in a way that made it hard to breathe, it even hurt when his nose twitched and it twitched uncontrollably now because his hatred for the strong that reigned over him, beyond these cell walls, consumed and stoked the fires of revenge boiling within his veins and as it did he began to plot and plan the tortuous death of Felix Patron. He laid back down, agonizingly, onto his side and wrapped himself in the itchy thin wool prison blanket and stared at the contents of the plate. Whatever was laid out before him, he knew would not be edible but he gazed upon the shadowy lump on the cold cement floor, hungrily, just the same.  

(PART 2)

He glared insatiably at the lump of bloodied matted fur wrapped in the large corn tortilla; it laid lifeless on the cold hard floor. He now recognized the gory mound as a beaten rat and understood intrinsically the dark irony of Felix’s offering. Blood had soaked through the rodent’s thin, unleavened flat bread blanket making the tortilla look moldy in certain areas. He was suddenly feverishly cold and shivered as he tentatively wrapped his blanket around himself and laid on his cot just as motionless as his new cellmate; they were satirically similar. He stared, somewhat captivated by this delicate frail looking beast, beaten to a pulp with its beady lifeless eyes. ‘La caja's’ greatest hits, played on and echoed hauntingly throughout the cell block and as it did he heard the disparaging long-suffering cry of yet another inmate moan “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.” But then recognized the voice and realized the sound was escaping from his very own chest and this shamed his tumultuous shaken pride. It shamed him, even more, to hear Felix Patron’s laughter echoing down the hall, laughing at his momentary whimper of weakness but unknown to him, Felix had long gone home. He was hallucinating and had begun to punch his own paranoid ticket aboard ‘La caja’s' crazy train but then somehow found a way to refocus on the rat and when he did a revolting image of himself feasting on the insides of the rodent’s belly filled his mind and he cried out, once more, unabashed “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.” He was hungry, so very hungry but the thought of eating this dead rat made his chapped lips quiver and his rigid body shake because he knew, deep down, that he could; that he wanted to and that disturbed him so much more than any horrific thing he had ever done in his lifetime. As he teetered with delirium...he saw something move. 

The rat’s knotted sullied chest faintly rose and fell as its thick naked tail squirmed and flopped like an earthworm crawling on hot asphalt. It didn’t blink but its nose twitched subtly; it shivered faintly but didn’t move otherwise. The tough old tattooed Sicario had a single moment of clarity, he sat up and skeptically covered his lips. He rubbed the back of his aching head, squinted then pinched his beady eyes together with his fingers, fought off the crazy and then looked again. The rat was, indeed, alive. The hunger in him somehow dissipated and what replaced it was something completely foreign to him and elusively unexplainable. The feeling was alien, one he'd never known or felt before. For, seemingly, the first time in his life he experienced an overwhelming sensation of emotion wash over him. An emotion that only humans experience when they see deep pain and suffering among the weakest and least of all creation. It was pity. His mouth curled downward as his eyes began to sting and his hands began to shake as an unfamiliar pinch of warm salted tears dripped from his eyes and rolled down the fake faded tatted green tears that inked his hardened face. The rodent was still but blinked slowly (almost inquisitively), shivered and twitched its nose, weakly, but was seemingly unable to move. 

He slowly stood from his cot and unthreateningly kneeled before the wounded delicate animal and held his shaking hand towards it in a way that conveyed he meant no harm and then (ever so gently) unwrapped the corn tortilla from its body and tenderly touched the top of its blood matted head with a single finger. “Que está bien mi amigo.” He whispered softly over and over again and the rat permitted the man to comfort him, closed its eyes and rested. He touched the weak, beaten, hunted and broken little thing and saw a glimpse of himself. It’s current frailty and similarity of its physical condition mirrored his own and something baffling overcame him. It was in that moment that he felt an awe-inspiring pain within his torso. It was something that could only be described as a needle slowly impaling the left side of his chest; first, breaking through the scarred brown tatted skin then piercing sternly through his bruised rib cage until the sharp pointy spike touched, coquettishly, the surface of his aorta and then plunged violently into the soft raw flesh of his entire dark throbbing heart.

It felt good and terrible all at once and the feeling made him crumble over his knees. He bowed before the little beast not out of reverence but out of mere overwhelmed emotional weakness. He cupped his face into his hands as his lips and body began to quiver on the cold cement floor. The badly beaten rodent breathed faintly, opened its eyes and watched motionlessly as the rat-faced man became affronted and utterly broken, making sniveling crying sounds; sounds that dripped with mannish mawkishness and filled the cell with noises that he had never heard or made before. His eyes unleashed a flood of pain as his face melted into a disfigured mess of snot and saliva. His bravado washed away into a puddle of reflected tears. And all that he had done, all that he had taken from the strong and the weak (in his lifetime) flashed before his eyes and overwhelmed him as he cried with shame and deep regret. This little broken and battered beast had triggered something lying dormant deep within him and as he bellowed in the darkness the other prisoners became still and ‘La caja’ fell silent as they all listened to his unabashed naked emotional transparency and they did so with unmitigated respectful unease—they mocked him not. It was a deeply empathetic gesture of reverence silently conveyed by all the other men whom he had mentally tortured in the past. The power of this impactful, silent gesture of mercy was not wasted on him.

Felix Patron knelt solemnly with his heavy-set wife and two young daughters (both in ponytails and white dresses), said their ‘Our Father’ catholic prayers and then sat back in their pew. They listened respectfully to Father Hidalgo's sermon about the grace of God and His great mercy. They (Mr. and Mrs. Patron not the children) received communion and when mass was finished they hugged and shook the hands of the other parishioners for the Patron family were held in very high esteem within the community. Later, at home, Felix enjoyed a light lunch, changed into his guard uniform, kissed his wife and playfully tickled his sweet little girls before heading to Desesperación Penitenciaria for his scheduled four to midnight shift. Driving his Volkswagon bug down the vast dusty dirty plains of Monterrey he massaged the base of his recovering middle finger with his thumb (a thing he habitually did when his most valued possession rested there) and rubbed away the pain that shot up and down his sore fingers. 

The ring had significant value to him, monetarily it was worth thousands, but it had also been in his family for more than five generations. It had been passed down from father to son all those many years and though he had no sons to leave it to; it destroyed his pride knowing that he was the one and only descendent that found a way to lose it. His father was unnaturally disgusted and reminded him of all the times he pleaded with him to never wear that ring into the penitentiary. He had brought shame to the family. By losing such a valued heirloom he had solidified a legacy of embarrassment for generations to come or so it was implied. Though he told no one of his nightmares and how that day haunted him, it also fueled his absolute hatred for ‘La Rata’ and he could not wait to see his crumbled spirit. Felix then skittishly laughed to himself as he imagined the starving man’s response to the dead rat. The thought of him desperately eating the rodent made him smile deep inside which tickled the darkness that resided in the dreary shadows of his unguarded soul. 

La Rata wept, for the first time in his life and did so until his body collapsed from malnutrition and sheer emotional exhaustion but regained enough energy to tenderly scoop up his new friend and laid him down beside him on his cot and fondly but sleepily stared at it. He shielded the beaten rat from the view of the stippled glass panel window with his body by facing the prison wall and covered most of its body with the edge of his blanket. He nestled his nose close to the rodent so much so that he could smell its musky, irony, gaminess and solemnly watched as its chest rose and fell subtly with each slight breath. It had a calming mesmerizing effect on him. He yearned for it to live.  ‘La caja’ was willfully silent but the pipes still dripped and her lights buzzed and flickered as a song (he had not heard for over twenty years) came to his memory from some far away place in his subconscious and though he could not recall the singer or all the words he remembered parts of the chorus. In the quietest of broken breathy whispers, he crooned inaudibly. “You are not alone, I am here with you..." He hummed the words he didn't remember and continued. "You are not alone. I am here with you..., You are not alone…” The rat’s nose spasmed and opened its shiny dark eyes lazily. It blinked and then comfortably fell back asleep as a mighty ineffable siesta wrapped its arms warmly around 'La Rata’s' entire being and he too found sleep—a slumber, unlike anything he had ever experienced before.  

(PART 3)

As Felix drove the last twenty miles of single desert dirt road towards Desesperación Penitenciaria he spotted, in the heat-waved distance about a quarter of a mile away, what looked to be a road block of dark window tinted white SUVs with two armed men standing in front of them.  Something in him felt a dark dread that begged him to turn around but his rusted Volkswagon bug continued down the path creating dust in its wake. He touched his guard issued revolver to pacify his anxiety but it did little to comfort him. As he approached the parked SUVs one of the armed men raised his semi-automatic rifle and stood in a military style shooting position. Felix stopped about twenty yards away, kept both hands on his steering wheel and swallowed hard. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. The other armed man wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap cautiously walked towards him. “Felix Patron?” He said. Felix was fearful to respond so didn’t. “Felix Patron!” The gunman repeated more aggressively. “Si! Si!” He finally admitted nodding his head defeatedly. The man motioned Felix to get out of the car as the other armed man kept his scope on him. As he got out the man with the ball cap and glasses cautiously took his revolver and set it on the hood of the Volkswagon and then nudged him towards the SUVs. He obliged begrudgingly saying nothing. The driver of the third vehicle got out and opened the back passenger door. Inside was a man...but no ordinary man. When Felix saw him his feet stopped cold but the gunman nudged him again. “Entra! Entra!” He said aggressively. Felix got in.

The man wore a simple pair of faded Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and an extremely clean white t-shirt. A pair of dark sunglasses with gold trim sat comfortably on his nose as he nonchalantly chewed on a toothpick.  Felix sat down next to the man, held his breath and averted eye contact.  The driver then shut the door and waited outside with the other gunman. The air conditioning felt good on his face but did little to stop his perspiration. “Do you know who I am?” The man asked in Spanish. “Si.” Felix nodded fearfully; not looking up. The man took the toothpick from his mouth. “It’s okaaay. Relaaaaaax. If I wanted you harmed I would have done so already.” Felix closed his eyes, nodded agreeably and breathed a bit easier. “You have something I want.” The man continued and Felix inquisitively raised his eyebrows. “There is a man in your care at Desesperación Penitenciaria.” He paused for effect. “You may know him as ‘La Rata.’ I trust you are treating him well?” Felix didn’t quite know how to respond but shook his head agreeably anyway. “In forty days, I want him released. You've done this before? Yes?” Felix shook his head and began to explain how impossible that would be given his solitary confinement but the man in the glowingly bright white t-shirt and gold trimmed sunglasses raised his fingers and Felix stopped speaking. “In forty days my men will be waiting for him. I have important business for him to attend to…only he can do it.” “Of course I will compensate you for your troubles. I have just put a bag in your piece of shit car. In it, you will find fifty thousand dollars. When you have successfully coordinated his escape I will find you and you will be given another fifty thousand dollars.” Felix looked down. “That can purchase a lot of diamond studded rings, Mr. Patron.” He smiled and looked at Felix’s surgically repaired fingers and made a tsk tsk sound. "If I don’t have him in forty days…I will find you anyway.” He cleared his throat lightly, tipped his sunglasses as to look at Felix deep in his eyes. “I expect to find him well fed too. Do you understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Now get out cabrón.”  Felix's mind and body were numb. He stepped out of the SUV's cool air without saying a word. The gunmen got into their vehicles and the small convoy drove away leaving him standing in a mist of light dust.  

He knew not how long he had slept only that it was the deepest and most lucid of his lifetime. His subconscious mind had been filled with the most wondrous fantastic illuminated dreams and visions which made his eyes involuntarily weep and his face smile with child-like wonder as he slept. That was until he felt a heavy dark presence wash over him. It was an evil, well known and familiar, that was pulling him back into the conscious world; a world he did not want to return to. Nonetheless, the presence burrowed into his mind and burned deep into the back of his tatted head from the outside in until he could no longer withstand the horrid unpleasant force that was wrenching him from one world into another. He woke, opened his eyes and saw the battered rat innocently looking into his, blinking inquisitively and twitching its nose but not moving otherwise. He almost smiled but then felt or heard another ominous presence in his cell. He sat up quickly, covering the rat with his blanket with the same action and turned to face whatever it was that was threatening them.  “It’s okay. Don’t get up.” La Rata’s eyes raged with instinctual violence but then saw his potential threat cower backward from the chair he was sitting in. And there stood Felix prepared to bang on the door for assistance with one hand and with the other raised defensively to calm his prisoner.  “Sit down. I just want to talk.” He said in Spanish with false bravado.  “I have nothing to say to you.” La Rata said raspily with adrenaline pumping through his veins but then his malnourished weakness began to overwhelm him and so he sat on the edge of his cot. “What do you want?” he said anemically and started to cough. 

Felix slowly and cautiously took a seat and spoke in a low voice. “Rico…” He cleared his throat, gritted his teeth and snarled his nose. “Rico Espenoza wants you out.” He looked over his shoulder at the prison door. “In forty days I will help you escape.” He let his words seep into La Rata’s consciousness. “I can not say anything else right now. He knows everything. He has eyes…even here. He wants you out…he has a job for you. I must comply or I’m a dead man.” He said pointedly. La Rata chuckled to himself and began to laugh. He shook his head knowingly and looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you have seen Rico Espinoza, then you are already dead.” His laughter was muffled but chilling; it faded into La Caja's usual noise. The silence between the two men was mulish. There was no love lost between the two. Felix then said reflectively breaking the silence after taking a deep knowing breath. “I will find a way to get you out. He wants you well fed. I know you're hungry...what do you want?” He needed La Rata’s full cooperation and giving him food, was a good first step in that direction. He begrudgingly realized he no longer had the upper hand over his enemy and resented the reversal of control. La Rata was cerebral. He was wily even in his cadaverous state. “What do you want?” Felix said again.

He was weak but his mind locked onto something warm, fluffy and sweet. “I want…french toast.” He said with a smile. “I want thick chunks of melted butter and the sweetest syrup, topped with powdered sugar…crisp bacon, and orange juice....no, coffee, I want coffee.” Felix stepped to the door. His face snarled again but he nodded. “OK.” He pounded the door and waited for it to open. “I’m not finished.” La Rata remembering how the prisoners on the cell block treated him during his emotional breakdown he said. “I want it…for everyone.” Felix objected with a low growl. “No! That's impossible.” La Rata, unphased by his objection, turned his back on him and laid down. “I will not eat unless everyone in ‘La Caja’ eats." He smiled to himself like a man holding a Royal Flush. The cell door opened and Felix knew his fate was irreversibly tied to La Rata's. "I will not!" He said under his breath with anger but knew he'd have to comply. When the cell door slammed shut, La Rata, void of all stamina, faced the rodent and softly touched its head with a finger. The rodent leaned into his tender caress then found the energy to groom itself by licking its hands and rubbing its face multiple times. A smile welled up and escaped the hardened man as he watched. He nestled in closer, so close that he could smell the rodent's musky warm corn chip odor and they were both comforted.  

Hours later the entire cell block of ‘La Caja’ was filled with the implausible smells of cinnamon, the sweet scent of syrup and the distinctive and wonderful hickory sizzling aroma of bacon. The seemingly foreign yet unmistakably familiar breakfast bouquet filled each prisoner’s nostrils triggering wonderfully intense memories of days gone by, simpler days; days when they were free. As the trays slid under each of their doors elation and joy fill their 6’ by 9’ cells and some men even began to weep as they sipped hot coffee, and chewed on their fluffy egg-battered syrup soaked pan fried bread. Many of the prisoners had never experienced this popular American cuisine but the response was undeniable. The gloom and horrors of La Caja were momentarily suspended. For that singular fleeting moment in time, they were not caged animals. They were human again as all their senses of smell, sight, taste and touch intermingled as one, reminding and triggering deep emotions within themselves which did much more than just fill their bellies—it filled them with a feeling of hope and an improbable sense of humanity. 

Somehow, 'La Caja' seemed starved herself as she seemingly clung to the pleasant scents of vanilla, cinnamon, maple syrup, and hickory. She wore it like perfume and it permeated throughout her walls for days which even reminded the hardened Mexican guards of the comforting smells of home. That day La Rata ate until he could eat no more. He chewed slowly and cherished every bite as he fed his new friend pieces of sweet bread. He named him Rafael and unknown to him, the name meant "God has healed." Rafael was getting better by the day but still did not move. Although, after eating a few morsels the rat nonchalantly produced a small banana shaped pellet from his bottom and La Rata could not help but laugh out loud. ‘La Caja’ sang a new tune that day—not her usual greatest hits. The voices of prisoners were heard singing and laughing as genuine joy pervaded throughout the cell block. Men spoke to each other (for the first time) through their solitary walls and no one punched his personal ticket aboard the crazy train. It was a day...like no other. 

Rafael was with him at all times and though he had recovered fully and could now run freely, he stayed by La Rata’s side. If he was not in his loving hand, he was on his shoulder, if not on his shoulder, he was simply on or next to him in some fashion. The two were inseparable. As the days turned to weeks an improbable change had come over La Rata as well as over the entire cell block of 'La Caja'. The depth of his caring and nursing for Rafael had somehow created a deific, almost celestial, spark of sympathy within his spirit; the likes of which he had never experienced.  This care and adoration for the rodent fanned a flame that smoldered deeply within his once sadistic, murderously dark crime-hardened heart which no human had ever touched or awakened before.  La Rata fed, cared for and loved that simple beast and in his love for the meek and vulnerable he began to forget and lose his acidic hatred for the strong and powerful. His weary soul had begun to thirst for some fount of reprieve from the hatred he had harbored so deep within himself. And so the hand that had done so much to terrify, hurt and kill was no longer against his fellow prisoners nor the guards nor anything living, for that matter—beit weak or strong.  

Over the next forty days, La Rata became humble, obedient and compliant which set an example for the rest of the prisoners in La Caja. When men would begin to lose it in their cells La Rata would reach out to them, encourage them, calm them and on one improbable occasion he even sang to a distraught and suicidal inmate (the same song he had sung to Rafael when he found him battered and beaten). The conversion was beyond miraculous. Felix Patron nor the guards could understand the transformation La Rata was undergoing and so there was never a discussion to remove the rodent from his solitary cell. They wondered how such a hardened murderer, a criminal’s criminal could suddenly be converted into the likeness of a gentle obedient child. Even the appearance and expression of his facial features began to astonishingly change. A pleasing smile began to frolic around his mouth which had never known anything more than a menacing smirk. The cold dark calculating abyss of darkness that was his eyes began to disappear and in their place was a soft arcane warm radiance. His face was softer, wiser and contradicted the tattoos that covered his face, his nose never twitched. The killer was a killer no longer and the depth of his empathy for that little vulnerable beast had been the catalyst to something extraordinary. His feet were now set, definitively, on a pathway towards a divine love; all because he pitied and cared for (deeply) a defenseless, broken and despised creature...much like himself. La Rata was now clothed in his right mind and had somehow been restored to humanness and humanity.  The taker no longer took, for he now absorbed the significant nutrients of the fruits of benevolence and giving began to take root in his heart and its appeal simply would not be shaken.  

It had taken most of the fifty thousand dollars Felix was given to discretely bribe and or convince a handful of his guards and colleagues to hand La Rata over to Rico Espinoza. His only problem now was that La Rata had no desire to leave the solitary confines of La Caja which was something Felix did not anticipate. There was nothing, not a single remnant left in La Rata that wanted to return to a life of taking and he was determined to live the rest of his life out in solitary confinement which he knew was better than what he deserved. He knew he deserved death. To be delivered to Rico Espinoza meant he would have to kill again; this was certain and he wanted no part of it. Felix feared for his life and the lives of his family if he did not deliver La Rata as promised and knew that he would either have to force him or somehow persuade the repentant killer to escape. The night before the fortieth day Felix came to La Rata's cell one last time. "Tomorrow, we leave...before dawn." He said with a hint of worry. La Rata said nothing as he sat on the edge of his cot letting Rafael travel from one hand to the other across his arms, shoulders, and neck and then back again. He was calm, at peace and understood Felix's desperation but he knew something Felix didn’t know.

“You don’t want me to leave La Caja. You don’t know what you're asking.” He didn’t look up at Felix. “Rico is the son of Diablo Espinoza. I don’t need to tell you that he is more ruthless and deranged than his father. I did many terrible things for Diablo and Rico, will want the same. The first thing he will have me do…is kill you and your family. I will have no choice.” “Is this what you want?” Felix shook his head. “I have no choice either. I am bound to get you out tomorrow morning. I must do what Rico wants or he will kill me anyway.” “If I and my family are to die then let it be at your hand but you are different now. I know you won’t…YOU know you won’t.” “Have I not taken care of you these past forty days? Have I not allowed you to keep your pet and fed you and the rest of the prisoners as you requested? Please, you must go tomorrow. I have kept up with my end.” Felix was whispering now. “Tomorrow you will be unbound, liberated.” La Rata interrupted him. “Tomorrow I will NOT be unbound, nor liberated. You have no idea what you are asking me to do…and I won’t, I can’t!” 

Felix was beginning to feel even more distressed as La Rata dug in his heals. He became desperate and reckless with his words. Anger and hopelessness fueled his next sentence. “If you do not comply, I will force you.” His teeth gritted. “I will terrorize every prisoner in here until you do and I will kill that fucking rat!” Felix regretted the words the moment they were said but stood firm on his bluff. La Rata’s nose twitchedfor the first time in over a month but then he smiled softly. He understood Felix’s attempt to motivate him through fear and intimidation. He knew the tactic well. No words were said for several minutes as Rafael sat comfortably in the protection of La Rata’s hand and nibbled playfully on his thumbnail. Finally, he spoke. “You do not know what you are asking but I will go.” Even under such restraint, La Rata was disturbed by the irritation that boiled in his belly. Felix left without a word.

When early morning came two nervous guards entered his cell and escorted him out. Many of the prisoners in 'La Caja' felt something awry and stood by their stippled glass viewing windows and watched as La Rata was being moved under the cover of darkness. The prison seemed never ending as they made their way out of the cell block of 'La Caja' and through a maze of confusing sharp right and left-hand turns with each corridor and hallway looking identical. Cell doors and cages opened and shut quietly as the guards walked quickly through the labyrinth that was Desesperación Penitenciaria. The ground seemed to ramp downward deep into the ground as they went through several security doors. As they did, La Rata held Rafael in both hands often whispering words of reassurance as the little beast quivered and shivered with every slam of a door. Within fifteen minutes one last door was opened and La Rata was met with morning stars twinkling in the darkness and the intoxicating smell of dew along with a blast of the coolest freshest air he had ever known, or so it seemed. He inhaled deeply and the air seemed to invigorate and clean out his lungs with every breath. He was put into the backseat of a beat-up Volkswagon and recognized Felix as the driver. He said nothing. The guards tapped the top of the bug and Felix cautiously drove away without his lights on. 

He slowly drove while keeping his lights off for about a mile until he felt safe and then turned them on and found a normal speed. When they got to the rendezvous point they waited and La Rata finally spoke. “I have something that belongs to you.” He set Rafael down beside him and reached into his sock. He pulled out the diamond studded ring. “I took this from you. I am sorry.” Felix turned to him, bit his bottom lip unknowingly as a flood of respect for La Rata moved his spirit. Felix took the ring and felt its weight in his hand as a convoy of SUV lights cut through the darkness in the distance. Felix looked at La Rata. “They’re going to kill you.” He looked down ashamed. “I'm sorry. The Espinoza cartel and Pena cartel are joining forces.” “You killed and tortured many in the Pena family on behalf of Diablo Espinoza.” “They don't want you in prison...they want you dead. Their son, Raul, wants revenge before merging.” "It was their last remaining condition.” He looked down and then up at him again. “I am sorry. You must run… while you still can.” La Rata silently felt Felix’s words wash over him. The convoy was almost upon them. “They're going to torture you, make an example of you and take your life. You must go!” La Rata closed his eyes and then opened them taking a deep breath. “They can not take what I freely give." He said tiredly. Rafael then settled on his shoulder and gave his ear a playful nibble which gave him goosebumps. He smiled warmly. 

He took the rat in both hands and pressed his nose tenderly to its' and closed his eyes. "Gracias, mi amigo.” He whispered. The convoy approached and then stopped as La Rata set Rafael on the passenger seat next Felix and then got out of the car. “Go.” He said and Felix, begrudgingly afraid, slowly stepped on the gas. The convoy let the Volkswagon pass without incident as Felix watched, in his rearview mirror, the Pena cartel men forcibly take La Rata to the ground.  He was a lamb among lions. He did not struggle nor did he raise a hand in violence. He was silent and gave his reapers no satisfaction. There was nothing that they could do to his body that he didn't willing give up. He reaped what he sowed with a celestial inner strength and understanding. His nose never twitched and though he was tortured and held captive...he had never been more free. He was at peace, filled with a quiet redemptive spirit that quietly whispered throughout his entire being that his life, this transformed life, was a life finally worth taking. He died with his eyes wide open which seemed to peer hauntingly into the great divine along with a gummy blood-soaked serene buck-toothed smile on his tatted battered face.

As the sun rose, Felix thought about releasing Rafael into the desert. He pulled to the side of the road. The little delicate beast that he had once despised, tortured and tried to kill looked at him inquisitively. His heart broke as Rafael trotted up his arm and then comfortably nestled on his shoulder...it was then that he wept for La Rata. He put his ring back on (which never quite fit the same) and took Rafael home and cared for him. As a remembrance to La Rata, he respectfully fed Rafael warm fluffy syrupy sweet french toast on every fortieth day of the year.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

? 2017 Jason N. Versey?

I am the author of the book  A Walk with Prudence -Practical Thoughts of Wisdom for Everyday Living

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