Oh darlin, darlin
What have I done"
I've been a stray from you too long
And all my days have turned to darkness
Hell is leaving the light on
- Oh Darlin' What Have I Done
The White Buffalo
Orange was never a favored color for the Outlaw, but over time, it was a color that you got used to. Just like the concrete walls of a four-by-four cell could become a place of safety, of confined realization. Solitary solace, away from other inmates, other criminals. A long-term, intrusive time out for a grown man, to think on what he's done. It was a new perspective.
Peering through those steel bars, he saw those who took it for granted. Those like him that took their years in confinement as a way to make peace with yourself. To gain a new look on life. A new appreciation for what wasn't in here.
As many friends as he'd made in the prison, he'd made twice as many enemies by association with the name bore on a kutte locked away in some bin. They recognized the tattoos. The face. The name. If asked, he made no denial. A lift of a bearded chin, a hard stare. Yeah, m"him. And that was the noose around his neck then and there. The yard was no safe refuge, no enjoyment of the sun but a time to look over his shoulder, expecting violence from every hard look shot his way. Over time, he'd grown used to his four-by-four sanctuary.
The same four-by-four cell that housed the few items he was allowed to keep. A stack of books, all sent to him by friends outside the walls. A leather bound book with most pages blank, keeping his thoughts safe and tucked away inside his head. The first few pages were marked only with tallies, noting the days spent. His personal calendar. Personal grooming items, the small amount of clothes given to him. Lacking laces or anything possibly used as a weapon. A box, still holding some of his favorite things from friends that knew him best and tucked beneath them was letters he kept. He'd told those that called to write him instead, they meant something more. And writing gave him something to do.
Everything was kept tidy, clean. Tucked away and out of sight. The door was always closed, so he had time in case someone showed up to his cell that didn't like him all that much. His bed was always made after sleeping in it, and often he'd sleep on top of it just in case. He didn't want to be entangled in blankets and sheets. His paranoia and distrust was always at it's peak at night.
But he was used to looking over his shoulder, before he was locked away. What was his biggest struggle, was sank his stomach down to his feet. What he cherished most was gone in the blink of an eye: freedom. What the Outlaws cherished most, believed in, reveled in. What they held close in their hearts. Freedom was in the road, his hog, the wind. It wasn't in concrete and steel, it wasn't in the color orange and grey. Those were only reminders of what he'd lost.
And every day; after his morning routines of a shower, breakfast and brushing his teeth, he'd mark those tallies in his book. Counting down to the moment he could breathe in Freedom.
Before it was too late. Before the clock ran out. Before they came and made him pay his dues. His Real Dues.
Orange was never a favored color for the Outlaw, but over time, it was a color that you got used to. Just like the concrete walls of a four-by-four cell could become a place of safety, of confined realization. Solitary solace, away from other inmates, other criminals. A long-term, intrusive time out for a grown man, to think on what he's done. It was a new perspective.
Peering through those steel bars, he saw those who took it for granted. Those like him that took their years in confinement as a way to make peace with yourself. To gain a new look on life. A new appreciation for what wasn't in here.
As many friends as he'd made in the prison, he'd made twice as many enemies by association with the name bore on a kutte locked away in some bin. They recognized the tattoos. The face. The name. If asked, he made no denial. A lift of a bearded chin, a hard stare. Yeah, m"him. And that was the noose around his neck then and there. The yard was no safe refuge, no enjoyment of the sun but a time to look over his shoulder, expecting violence from every hard look shot his way. Over time, he'd grown used to his four-by-four sanctuary.
The same four-by-four cell that housed the few items he was allowed to keep. A stack of books, all sent to him by friends outside the walls. A leather bound book with most pages blank, keeping his thoughts safe and tucked away inside his head. The first few pages were marked only with tallies, noting the days spent. His personal calendar. Personal grooming items, the small amount of clothes given to him. Lacking laces or anything possibly used as a weapon. A box, still holding some of his favorite things from friends that knew him best and tucked beneath them was letters he kept. He'd told those that called to write him instead, they meant something more. And writing gave him something to do.
Everything was kept tidy, clean. Tucked away and out of sight. The door was always closed, so he had time in case someone showed up to his cell that didn't like him all that much. His bed was always made after sleeping in it, and often he'd sleep on top of it just in case. He didn't want to be entangled in blankets and sheets. His paranoia and distrust was always at it's peak at night.
But he was used to looking over his shoulder, before he was locked away. What was his biggest struggle, was sank his stomach down to his feet. What he cherished most was gone in the blink of an eye: freedom. What the Outlaws cherished most, believed in, reveled in. What they held close in their hearts. Freedom was in the road, his hog, the wind. It wasn't in concrete and steel, it wasn't in the color orange and grey. Those were only reminders of what he'd lost.
And every day; after his morning routines of a shower, breakfast and brushing his teeth, he'd mark those tallies in his book. Counting down to the moment he could breathe in Freedom.
Before it was too late. Before the clock ran out. Before they came and made him pay his dues. His Real Dues.