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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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This chapter is heavy on the narrative. However, I thought it important to describe the real horror of solitary confinement so that you better understand Tom's changing personality in the chapters to come.
In peace,

OpenPage x
The key had turned in the lock on the lid of hell and the eerie muted caterwauling of those whose tortured souls had finally slipped into the realm of insanity echoed continuously off the dirty prison walls. Stripped of their clothing, their dignity and eventually their minds, the unfortunate men confined to the wing known by guards and inmates alike as Hades, spent twenty-four hours a day locked inside their tiny six by twelve foot chambers; their only comfort a thin, foul smelling mattress that offered them a modicum of relief from the cold cement floor. A stainless steel toilet with a hand basin attached to the side stood in one corner and an open steel shower that emitted cold water for ten minutes, once a week, took up the remaining precious space next to it. Although the cell was windowless, cold tendrils of air wafted under the heavy steel doors, chilling the men's bare flesh with its icy touch and adding another level of discomfort to their pain and misery. Although the inmates were supposed to receive a hot meal twice a day, the schedule was not habitual. If the guards were in a good mood, a tray would magically appear through a small slot at the bottom of the door. But the rations were mostly inedible; the cold, lumpy gruel often covered in human hair or globules of saliva. However, as stomach churning as the food was, the men looked forward to the sound of the tray skidding across the scuffed cement floor. They often went days without eating and any change to their routine was a welcomed relief to the monotony of their wretched existence. The only contact with another human being was if an inmate was fortunate enough to have a guard escort them to the six-foot square outdoor pen that served as an exercise yard. But the outings were scarce and they soon realized that their only company was the constant muffled screams of those around them who were steadily losing their minds.
**
At first, Tom thought he was strong enough to cope with the isolation. He spent his days exercising as best he could in the cramped quarters and to keep himself amused, he recited verbatim the Three Stooges movies he had watched with Penhall and now knew by heart. The other prisoners would hear cries of “Burnt toast and a rotten egg?” “Whatcha want that for?” “I got a tapeworm and that’s good enough for him!” and whilst most had no idea what he was yelling about, those still of sound mind came to the sad conclusion that he too was losing his marbles. But for Tom, it gave him a reprieve from the relentless agonized screams that reverberated around the concrete walls day and night for hours on end. He was determined not to succumb to the suffering of those around him, but he was deluding himself. He was no different to any other prisoner who had forcefully been isolated for weeks, months and sometimes years, deprived of even the most basic of human contact. All the men started their sentence hell bent on proving that they would not be the one to crack, that they had the constitution to withstand the mental torture and that they would show the hacks they could not be broken. However, the sad reality was very different. Human beings, by design, are social creatures so when cut off from their peers, there are obvious psychological breakdowns and Tom was proving no different.
He was slowly losing his mind.
First came the repetitive pacing; four and a half steps from one side of the cell to the other at its widest and two and a half steps at its narrowest. It became an obsession, he walked back and forth for hours, muttering the numbers aloud, never faltering in his narrative. He committed the number of steps per day to memory and each morning, he made a vow to break the previous day’s record. But soon, the incessant counting started to monopolize his every thought and even when he lay on his dirty mattress and tried to sleep, he continued to calculate imaginary steps in his mind. It was during this time he stopped showering, not because he did not want to stay clean, but because his confused brain became so focused on pacing the floor, he stopped noticing the water that trickled from the shower head once a week. But as the weeks turned into a month, the numbers whirring maniacally around in his mind began to make his head hurt and it was then that he turned to sexual gratification. The world that existed in his mind suddenly became a reality and wrapping his fingers around his cock, he came to believe that it was Booker jerking him off and he tugged at himself until he was sore, sometimes reaching orgasm, sometimes not. However, unbeknownst to him, he was not the only one gaining pleasure from his own hand. Word soon traveled amongst the guards and soon he was providing a free peep show to every perverted hack on the Block, his voracious sexual appetite seemingly never-ending. It too became a repetitive act, but after awhile, it lost all meaning and eventually, the illusion started to fade and the realization that Booker had deserted him sent him spiraling into the next phase; slamming his head repeatedly against the wall. The banging became a new ritualistic obsession, except this time the consequences were more serious. Each time his head ricocheted off the wall, Dennis' name would tumble from between his parched lips and it did not take long for a large gash to open up on the back of his head. As the wound became deeper, blood trickled down his neck, caking his naked flesh with its crimson flow and giving him a frightening appearance. However, the guards who peeked through the peephole barely raised an eyebrow. They had seen it all before and they knew it would end once the pain became too extreme. Then the screaming would start and continue on until the prisoner's mind snapped completely and he lay in a catatonic state for the duration of his sentence, and sometimes beyond. It was the continuous cycle of life in the solitary confinement wing and the hacks became immune to the pathetic dehumanization of their charges because, after all, there was no punishment without pain.
**
55 days in solitary - Friday March 16th 1990 (4.09 p.m.)
The sickening screech of metal on metal woke Tom from a fitful sleep and as the door of his cell slowly opened, he immediately curled into a protective ball. When light flooded the tiny space, he instinctively shielded his eyes against the invasive brightness and a soft whimper of fear sounded from between his chapped lips. Thirty-four days had passed since he had last seen another human being and confusion mixed with rising panic caused his heart to hammer painfully in his chest. He squinted against the harshness of the light, desperate to see who or what had entered the hell that had become his asylum. But all he could distinguish was a dark, shapeless figure and when something soft touched his filthy, naked flesh, he yelped in fright and flapped his arms uselessly in front of him in a pathetic attempt to ward off the unseen evil. Immediately the faceless silhouette's mocking laughter filled the tiny cell before a loud voice instructed, “Stand up and put your clothes on Hanson, the Warden’s here to see you and he don’t wanna look at your junk.”
Tom remained motionless, his bewildered mind unable to comprehend the command. Seconds later, a heavy hand slapped him forcefully on the side of the head and he cowered further into the corner. “DID YOU HEAR ME BITCH?” The Shadowman boomed. “Put your fucking clothes on and stand the fuck UP! The Warden ain’t got time for your sniveling bullshit, got it?”
Stunned by the unexpected contact, Tom rose unsteadily to his feet and quickly pulled on boxers, t-shirt, jeans, and a ripped hoodie. The material rubbed against his sensitive skin, his flesh no longer accustomed to the irritation of the course fibers and he pulled awkwardly at his crotch. But a rough hand immediately grabbed him by the arm and cruelly squeezed his thin wrist. “Quit playin' with yourself and stand still or so help me God, you'll spend another month down here.”
Pain flared in Tom’s wrist, but he bit down on his lower lip and remained silent. The Shadowman’s thunderous voice assaulted his senses and he was having difficulty comprehending what was happening. His eyes remained blinded by the light and he desperately wanted to cover his ears and mute the unaccustomed sound of The Shadowman's voice, but he was too frightened to move. The Shadowman had told him to remain motionless and so he obliged because he no longer had a mind of his own, in fact, he barely had a mind; he was hanging onto his last vestige of sanity by a thread.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, their purposeful steps signaling the arrival of The Warden and Tom attempted to push down the rising fear that threatened to erupt in the form of a panic-stricken scream. The interruption to his routine of solitude and silence had him physically shaking in terror, his addled mind unable to cope with the unfamiliar situation. All he wanted was to curl up in the corner of what he now considered his home and comfort himself in the only way he knew how, with sexual gratification. But he understood enough to know that first, he had to see The Warden and once the meeting was over, then maybe they would shut the door and leave him alone with his madness.
A whispered conversation between The Shadowman and The Warden took place for several minutes, but after spending nearly two months in isolation, Tom’s hypersensitive hearing distinguished every word they were saying. However, although he could hear the words, his mind hovered between confusion and a paralyzing fear and he was unable to comprehend their meaning. Therefore, he remained motionless and stared silently at the floor until a deafening voice penetrated through the thick fog of his consciousness. “TURN AND FACE THE WARDEN, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
Tom shuffled in a half circle and lifting his gaze, he stared at the man who ran California’s largest penitentiary. He attempted to smile because somewhere in his subconscious he figured it was the polite thing to do. But it had been so long since his lips had formed a smile, his mouth twitched into a contorted grimace, transforming his beautiful features into a macabre mask of impending lunacy. However, despite the horrific sight of Tom's contorted face staring back at him, his neck caked with dry blood, Warden Henry Simpson’s wizened face remained impassive. He had worked within the prison system for thirty years and the plights of the inmates rarely moved him. To be an effective chief administrative officer at one of the largest prisons in the country, he had learned many years ago to harden his heart and view the prisoners under his charge as sub-human rather than as ensouled beings. To do so made it easier to go home to his wife and children and live a normal life outside of the walls of the penitentiary. If he allowed himself to feel compassion and view the men as his peers, he feared he too, would spiral towards madness.
Taking a step closer towards Tom, he wrinkled his nose in disgust as the pungent aroma of stale sweat and semen assaulted his nostrils. Prisoner TZ988 had obviously stopped showering weeks ago and the stench was overpowering, making it difficult not to gag. But he maintained an outward composure and swallowing deeply, he spoke in a loud, flat voice. “Prisoner Hanson, you have had sufficient time on your own to reflect on your sins. Is there anything you would like to say?”
Unaccustomed to someone speaking in such close proximity, the strident resonance of The Warden’s voice aggravated Tom’s eardrums and he flinched at the sound, his shoulders hunching protectively as his brow creased in confusion. “Sins?” he rasped in bewilderment. “I um… I don’t remember… sins?”
Warden Simpson emitted a heavy sigh. It was not uncommon for a solitary confinement inmate to lose touch with the reality of their transgressions and completely forget why they were serving time in the hole. But for the Warden, an inmate who did not remember his crime was not worthy of absolution and if Tom did not verbally repent he had no choice but to leave him in Hades indefinitely. However, he was feeling in a charitable mood and so he gave him a gentle prompt. “Do you remember Officer Howell?”
“Howell?” Tom muttered softly, his face screwed up in concentration and his hands balled into tight fists as he desperately willed his damaged mind to cooperate and remember what it was he was supposed to know. “Officer Howell… he… he…”
SNAP! It was as though a switch had flicked on in his brain and a vision of Howell’s sneering face flashed into his mind and his hands clenched so tightly, his nails bit painfully into the tender flesh of his palms. He started to speak, to tell Simpson what Howell had done and how he had ruined his relationship with Booker, but a brief flash of clarity stopped him. Now more than ever he needed to pull himself together and concentrate because although he did not fully understand the consequences of his actions, a little voice inside his head whispered that if he said the wrong thing, he would never see Booker again. Therefore, he closed his eyes and pushing down all the anger that was bubbling to the surface, he focused on clearing his mind. If he had any chance of holding onto his sanity, he needed to get out of the hell he was living in and start rebuilding his life as best he could inside D Block, however awful that might be.
Running his tongue over his cracked lips, he opened his eyes and lifting his head, he peered out through his greasy bangs. “He told me I didn’t have a visitor,” he croaked, “and I hit him because… because I was upset. I’m sorry, I hope he’s okay.”
Simpson studied Tom’s pale face for several long minutes before coming to his decision and turning to address his officer, he spoke in a loud voice. “He’s served his time, take him back to D Block.”
The guard nodded and turning on his heel, Simpson strode from the cold, damp cell, leaving Tom bewildered and terrified at the thought of facing the brutality of general population after living so long with only his own damaged mind for company.
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- 31
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Chasing a Butterfly