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Ryat

I locked eyes with the man across the crowded cafeteria. At first, he looked away, but then his gaze returned, and I fixed him with a taunting stare. That piercing silver gaze was the first step towards sealing his fate. I made sure my expression conveyed that to him.

His name was Geraldo, and soon he would be gone.

He trembled and hastily left the room, keeping his head down.

"He's probably hurrying back to his cell to cry into his pillow," a melodious voice remarked beside me. Bruno lounged against the cafeteria bench with an air of superiority, like a displaced Irish prince mingling with commoners.

"I'm going to make him regret it. Every single bite," I said with a smirk, gripping my plastic fork in the only way that made it functional. I scooped up the bland mashed potatoes on my plate and ate them. "Food is fuel," a mantra that held true in prison.

Powdered mashed potatoes made with water. My favorite. It must be Wednesday. Seven years of mashed potato Wednesdays had become routine. It was proof that people could adapt to anything. I didn't just survive in prison; I ruled it. I would almost miss it, and the predictable meal schedule, when I was finally released in one month.

Bruno chuckled, running a tattooed hand over his golden stubble, his green eyes following the path where Geraldo had disappeared. "I heard that's how he took them, you know? Chloroform on a pillow, held it to their faces and…" Bruno's voice trailed off, his expression hardening.

I understood his anger. I felt it too. The same burning rage that someone like him got to live another day, at the state's expense. We were all criminals in the maximum-security prison where I was considered an esteemed guest, but even felons had standards. That man had none. He didn't deserve to breathe. Unfortunately, New York State didn't have the death penalty for individuals like him.

But they had me.

There were no sympathetic committees or protest groups that could save him from me. Especially not when we were confined together in the darkness. The monster that lurked within my empty chest thirsted for his blood.

Bruno whistled softly. "Looks like we have company."

The chair beside him moved, and a large figure took a seat. I didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Romero had only been incarcerated for a month, and he had already sealed his fate by cooperating with the guards for better privileges. His gang wasn't pleased with him. So, he was seeking me out.

The Executioner.Palach.

“Well, Monteiro, did you think it over?”

I continued to eat, scooping the liquid mash from the plastic partitioned plate with ease, before I settled back and played with the plastic knife. Romero’s anxiety radiated across the table.

Bruno tutted. “You should know better than to think that thePalachwould be interested in your cause. Bending over for the guards won’t keep you safe in here. It’s too late for that now, though.”

“When you get out, I can make sure you have a real good time. All the coke you want, girls, the best week of your life. That has to be worth something.”

Romero was sweating. I could smell him from across the table. I was tired of male sweat and desperation. The smell was one of the worst parts of prison.

“You have nothing I want, Romero. Besides, I wouldn’t take anything from a rat. Run back to your gutter and say your prayers. You’ll need them where your old friends are sending you.”

“Fuck you, man, you could fix it, you could help. Instead, you want more blood on your hands?”

A laugh left me at that. One unhinged peal after another. Romero flinched, looking to Bruno for an explanation. There wasn’t one. There was no reason to laugh at the very realistic thought that this man would be dead by morning, and yet, laughter was all I had for him.

I looked at Bruno and jerked my head toward the unwanted guest. “This fuck thinks I’ll care if his blood is on my hands.”

Bruno chuckled. “He clearly missed his calling as a comedian.”

Romero’s face turned red. He was feeling embarrassed. Eyes were on us. He lost what was left of his sanity and swore at me, reaching into his jumpsuit.

The homemade shiv was out of his pocket and through my hand before I could pull it back. He pinned my left hand to the scarred cafeteria table and spit at me.

"Go ahead, laugh, bitch."

So, I did.

The pain was minimal, hardly worth noting. I raised my hand. The shiv hadn't gone in deep, just bouncing off the table's metal surface. Holding my hand up in front of Romero, I maintained my smirk.

"Come on, Joey, it's like you're not even trying. Did your guard buddies teach you the 'just the tip' game? I prefer something much more intense."

With that, I pushed the knife further into my hand. The cafeteria fell silent, the monotony of prison life broken by the unexpected drama.

Romero paled, his eyes locked on mine. He was clearly regretting his choices. "I'm sorry, man, I shouldn't have done that."

I grinned at him. "No, you probably shouldn't have, but everyone makes mistakes, right, Bruno?"

My friend chuckled, leaning back with his hands behind his head. "Where are your buddies now? The ones you bow down to?"

Romero licked his lips nervously. "They don't mess with the Palach."

Bruno laughed. "That's right. They know better than to mess with him."

"It's alright, buddy. No harm done. I don't have any scores to settle with a soon-to-be-dead man. You can leave," I said graciously, motioning towards the door, dismissing Romero.

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor broke the silence.

Glancing down at my plate, now under my bloody hand, a sudden annoyance surged through my fractured mind. My other fist banged on the table, causing Romero to freeze, looking at me with fear.

"That being said, I wasn't finished eating, and now it's ruined." With a fluid motion, I removed the shiv from my hand and swept the blood-splattered mashed potatoes onto the floor, standing up to loom over Romero.

"That's unacceptable." Bruno stood beside me. "Mashed potato Wednesdays are his favorite."

A tense atmosphere enveloped the room, like the charge of electricity before a storm.

"What game are you in the mood for today, brother?" I directed the question at Bruno, though my gaze remained fixed on Romero.

“Hmm, maybe whack-a-mole?” Bruno laughed and picked his tray up, just as another inmate, an idiot who’d just arrived the day before and was poor at reading the room, wandered past.

Bruno cracked him over the head with the tray, a signal for all hell to break loose.

I launched myself at Romero when he tried to turn and run. The lunchroom exploded in thrown food, followed by punches. Blood spattered across the tiles, and the sound of screams and an alarm blaring in the distance was a comforting lullaby for my fractured mind. Prison might smell like shit, but sometimes, it was entertaining as hell.