Prologue (pt. 1)

Quiet to normal people, free people, people outside the confines of prison walls, is normally the absolute absence of sound, or the absence of loud disturbing noises, complimented by peaceful sounds like soft music, or the chirping of birds outside a cracked window, or soft rain against the pain of that window.
But within the confines of those walls the concept of quiet is something totally different, more complex, never absolute or peaceful, more often than not a sign of tension, and always, always accompanied by one sound or another to remind one of exactly where they are. Quiet, except for the jingling of the keys as the officer makes his rounds, or the slamming of the steel doors that separate you from one layer of freedom after another, or the constant yelling of the bugged out inmate who probably was a helluva guy once upon a time in somebody’s ghetto, but has since lost the battle against the pressures of being in a cell, forced to come face to face with the person he’s probably spent most if his life running from…..his self. And this morning, on the Secured Housing Unit, a level five prison within a prison at the Wabash valley correctional facility in Carlisle, Indiana was no different.
All was quiet on the block in the early A.M. hours of December twelfth two thousand fifteen, except for the constant sound of Goonies’ brown plastic shower shoes dragging across the dusty gray concrete floor of the single man cell he occupied. He had paced the short length of the cell almost non stop through the night until his heels burned then went numb, stopping only to piss and refill his coffee stained Styrofoam cup with less than Luke warm water and a spoon full of Columbian coffee. Goonie was drunk, not from the affects of hooch, but from the news he had received from his sister the night before during his weekly fifteen minute phone call. He had spent every second since trying to unhear what he had heard, though before he heard it, he already knew it was coming. He had dreamt it, so the phone call only confirmed what he already knew was coming.
“How the fuck could I have the power to know this shit but not have the power to stop it?” Was a question he had wrestled with all his life, but now he wished he had the answer to more than ever. He was powerless over something for which he felt he was solely responsible.
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This is part of the prologue to my novel SON OF A GOON, I hope everybody enjoys and I welcome all feedback and critisizms.

Rico Comer
DOC #732167
Toledo Ohio Corr. inst.