“I turned into a creature of habit. I wake up at 4:45 am every morning. No exception. Surrounded by four grey cold walls, I have no companion but myself. Once upon a time, I was viewed as a dangerous man, so I didn’t get a cellie in my concrete palace. Then, I glance at the steel ledge to reassure myself that I reckon the central idea of each and every book that I possess. If I have doubts, I stand up to get it. Then, I return to the squeaky mattress for the next 45 minutes to restore my confidence. All nine books I have are alike. They are old and heavy, with inscribed hardcovers. Sometimes I rub my fingers over their leather covers until they turn warm and my fingertips are covered in dust. But most of all, I adore their smell – tobacco, soot, and memories.              I indulge in intellectual pleasures for around half an hour and then I go to the small stainless sink in my House to prepare for the day. The guards who work at my wing, or as we call them – the hacks – unlock the doors at about 5:30 am. This clears my way towards the central space with the kiosk. My first duty is to acquire tobacco for my rollies. Oh God, the first cigarette of the day is one of the finest moments. I always find interesting new notes of flavors and nuances in the taste of my cigarettes even though I have been smoking for the last 30 years. The others often look down on me. They sometimes murmur and whisper haughtily while throwing an occasional glance at my satisfied face. I don’t care. Perhaps, they find the pockmarks on my face disturbing. Or maybe, it is because of the “eerie smile” that I “constantly wear.” I don’t care. All that matters to me is the delightful feeling of the cigarette smoke which gently caresses my lungs. I sometimes have a cup of strong espresso with my cigarette, but I ceased having breakfast 12 years ago. After 8 years of eating oatmeal each and every morning, I numbed my taste buds with the tawdry flavor of oats. I would rather stay hungry for weeks than put another oat flake in my mouth.             Anyway, I assume that you are growing weary of my morning routine. I’ll move on. Once the clock hits 9 am, I start work. I am fortunate enough to work at the penitentiary’s kitchen. This is a full-time job, five days per week, eight hours per day. For the last ten years, I’ve been a line cook. I set up the stations with necessary supplies, chop vegetables, and prepare the salads. I like my job. It is the passion and love I put into the salads that make them so tasty. Every day I make people happy; it is a bit sad that the others never realize who prepares their salads. In any case, enough digressions. This job helped me with my self-discipline. We must show up for work showered, wearing clean clothes, and we must be well-groomed. The job also pays well. I earn around $160 per month, while the average salary here is $60 per month.             I never have lunch. Instead, I look through the small circular window, carved into the wooden door, which separates the chow hall from the kitchen. I look how everyone appreciates their salads and that makes my heart flutter. What else… We finish work at 5 pm, which coincides with dinner. For me, dinner is the most important meal of the day. It fuels me for the forthcoming self-reflection. As the clock hits 8:55 pm, the loudspeaker penetrates the air: “Be on your bunks and be visible! Be on your bunks and be visible! I repeat! Insubordination and highhandedness will be punished accordingly.” For the next 15 minutes, I just wait, hearing echoing voices in my wing: “Lock it down, 5435” – they use this command to make us get into the cell and shut the door. Sooner or later, my turn comes. Once the count concludes, I call it a day. This is what a classic day looks like, Fred… Dr. Foley. Pardon me.” “Thank you, Mr. Oetker for the extremely vivid description of your daily routine,” said Dr. Foley, the prison’s psychiatrist. “I thought that this question would be a good start for the psychological risk assessment for the Parole Board. I believe your story helped Dr. Samantha Alter get some insights of how our correctional facility functions, right Dr. Alter?” “Yes, absolutely,” she murmured while writing something down on a black clipboard. Dr. Alter was crucial for my release. I knew that it was going to be her report that would possibly set me free. I knew I must be cautious with her. Her innocent face couldn’t hide the impure emotions that she experiences towards me. Her occasional smiles couldn’t hide her fearful soul. I didn’t share the same attitude though. I found her beautiful – black cashmere curly hair, pale face woven from precious, soft silk. She scanned the room often with her brown piercing eyes as she tried to avoid excessive eye-contact with me. I think I made her feel uncomfortable. Dr. Foley provided contrast in the room. He had a face that not even his mother could love. A massive, meaty, monstrous nose covered most of his oversized, sickly face. His old skin was bumpy with dozens of blackheads scattered all over his face and neck, concentrated around his ugly beak. Dr. Foley had an annoying high-pitched voice like a six-year-old girl when upset. After hundreds of hours spent with him, I developed a firm animosity towards his irritating quirk of rubbing his colossal ears when he listens to somebody speaking. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. A repulsive old prick. “What are the three most valuable lessons you’ve learned for the last 20 years here, Mr. Oetker”, said Dr. Alter, putting an end to my study of the doctors. “I learned how to entertain myself with little to nothing in hand,” I began. “All I have left from my home are the nine books, but I have read them so many times that I had to think of alternative avocations. Often, I would play a game with myself – ‘guess the crime’ –I call it. I observe the inmates closely, pay attention to what they read, who they hang out with, and the visitors they get. I try to fabricate a story about how they got here. Once I think I have it figured out, I approach them to see if I was right. Most of the times I am wrong, some of the times that question provokes an angry look, though rarely does the question evoke profound hostility. I think—” “Is there something else you’ve learned here beyond self-entertainment?” Dr. Alter interrupted me impatiently. How dare she! Nerdy bitch! Damn, I have to get hold of myself and take it easy. “I have learned that engaging in other people’s business is not a good idea. Sometimes I would see things that I am not supposed to see but I learned to walk away. That’s the best thing you could do in prison. Umm…” Here I blanked out. Should I tell her how I learned to take bricks out of the wall, hide stuff, and then make a camouflage by using only toothpaste? Maybe I shouldn’t. I also learned how to brew prison wine in the top tank of my toilet. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her that either. I definitely have to keep my mouth shut about my beloved shiv. Hmm… Oh, yea… “I learned that I have absolute control only over my mind and my actions. Nothing else. Nobody else. I realized that there’s a lot going on around me, but I don’t have authority over any of those things. I can only manage the way I react to the circumstances. Letting the emotions take over is easy; mastering them is hard. Sometimes I just breathe deeply, and I remind myself things will get better. And look at me now – I am here, eligible for parole. I suppose that’s something, right?” “Edgar has truly been an exemplary case, I must admit,” said Dr. Foley while rubbing his gigantic ears. “At first, he was dismissive of me, and our relationship was tense. Edgar was disconnected from everyone around him, and he didn’t have mechanisms to process his feelings,” the old prick continued. “I’ve made progress with him over the last decade…” He made progress with me? I made progress with myself! I endured all his verbal tortures and the endless, lifeless conversations. All that wasted time in this office, listening to his bullshit, just to get out of this shithole as soon as possible. Delusional jerk… “So, with this being said, I have two more questions for you, Edgar. What do you plan to do if you get paroled? Why do you deserve to leave this correctional facility after brutally murdering your mother and father?”, the old bastard asked. Judgment awaits. The unfinished business with Mr. Oetker, my uncle. I wish I could tell them about my beautiful plan. I wish I could tell them about his arms, tied above his head. Cutting off his skin with a boning knife, a flexible blade that will allow me to peel him for hours with his face angry, gory, and agonized. All at the same time. I will then boil his pe… “Edgar?”, the doctor interrupted my pleasurable fantasizing. “As you have probably read in my personal statement, I chose to repent. I realized the irreversibility of my actions and I have had enough time here to reflect on them. I don’t have to be in prison to suffer; I suffer all the time. The voice of the inner judge pronounced the verdict – I will feel the remorse, the guilt, the pain... Everywhere. Forever.” “Mr. Oetker, what about the first question? What are you planning to do if you leave this facility?”, repeated Dr. Alter. “I am 38 years old; I have to adapt fast. My classmates from high school already have high-paid jobs, families, and have found how to live happily. I’ll do the same. I will get a job. Perhaps, I will work as a cook. At least initially. I have the experience. I will maybe find a woman who loves me. We will have kids. We will work together to reduce the stigma of ex-prisoners. My dream is to have a non-profit that will be vocal about the problems ex-prisoners face while they reintegrate into society. I want to create opportunities for them, help them fight unemployment, that kind of stuff. The best is yet to come for me. I am positive.” “Your plans for the future sound inspirational and commendable, Mr. Oetker.” She nodded and scribbled something on her clipboard. Then she made eye contact with me. For the first time, she smiled. I noticed her facial muscles becoming more relaxed. Her whole body became more casual. She uncrossed her legs, putting her feet slightly apart from one another. She squared her shoulders and leaned forward. Dr. Foley was staring at me, but he was looking through me. He was rubbing his ears, totally unaware what is happening in the room. Maybe he is thinking about his favorite creamy chicken potato soup that his wife, Margaret, cooks for him each Tuesday. ‘The secret ingredient is very simple,’ he told me numerous times during our sessions: ‘one teaspoon of minced chives.’ I can’t believe I remember all this nonsense. ‘Margie uses only reduced-fat evaporated milk; we try to be health conscious,’ he rambled on and on. Sometimes I was his personal therapist, not the other way around. He would tell me about his daughter – Shelly. The old man really misses her as she moved away to pursue a career five years ago. He had always dreamt of her going to medical school to become either a dentist or a pharmacist. Instead, she studied design and is now a freelancer. Five hundred miles separate him from her, and it is only Christmas, Thanksgiving, and her periodic depressive disorders that bring them together for a couple of days. ‘She is the same age as you are…I don’t understand how your minds work; I have always wanted a high level of job security for her.’ Then I would pretend to care and tell him one and the same thing: ‘Kids have to make their parents angry; this helps them get older. The parents have to forgive their kids. This helps them get older in a happy manner.’ Then Fred would nod in agreement, pat his ears, and switch the focus to me and my presumed problems. He was in no way a quack though. I could sense that once he was a great therapist. Now, he’s just old and worn out. Nature must recycle him. He tries by all means to peek inside my head to better understand his own daughter, but I have never allowed him to do that. We share the same age but that’s the only feature we have in common. I never really allowed him to glimpse into my head. It is dangerous. Dangerous for me. Dangerous for him. I couldn’t allow that.   “Mr. Oetker –, “ she began. “Edgar, you can call me Edgar,” I said softly and smiled. “Ed, I am looking at your file here and… Do you still hear the voices?”, she said with an upward inflection in her voice. “No, I do not,” I firmly denied. “Could you tell me more about these voices? Perhaps, the last time you heard them? What is your coping mechanism?” She said without making eye-contact, with her glance locked on her clipboard. “With all due respect that’s confidential. I do not want to spend the rest of my days in this correctional facility, surrounded by people who know about this if I don’t get paroled. If you want to speak about the voices, you will have to ask the two guards to leave the room. You can’t imagine the speed with which rumors spread here,” I said. “Dr. Foley, should we?” She asked anxiously and raised her glass bottle for a sip of water. “I have spent the last twenty years with this man without any guards inside, of course we can do that,” said Fred and asked the guards to leave. I have always thought that it is of our nature to hear voices. Not having any siblings, I found it pleasurable. I always had a companion. A lot of companions. Especially before I go to sleep. At first, I thought that this is the ‘imagination’ that other kids were referring to. But then, I realized that my thoughts are not always sourced from myself. My train of thought has many engineers. Only some of them want the train to derail but most of them want me to succeed. I love them. I love them all. They provide perspective. Most of them know the destination of the train, so all they have to do it to navigate. And it is not that hard to navigate a train on rails, anyway. I learned to take advice from them, but only from the experienced engineers. The others would want to make irresponsible decisions to maximize momentary pleasures. They would tell me to sell my weed to make some more cash; they would urge me to break the jaw of the officer when he nags about the status of my bed each evening, even to butcher this disrespectful female therapist with the pen in her hand. The guards left the room, so I can do this. The door is heavy and can be opened only from inside. But I have a higher goal and I am close to being able to achieve it. “The last time I heard them was when I chopped the head of my father with the axe,” I said. “Since then, I haven’t heard anything but my own internal monologue; I think that released the pressure that I have been holding for the first 18 years of my life.” “Edgar successfully passed all measurements recently, including the mental stability test. We are positive that his mind is at peace,” said Fred. “We even stopped some of his medications in the past few months; he shows enviable levels of self-awareness,” he concluded. “Didn’t he mention that you keep him isolated, in a cell by his own?”, Dr. Alter asked. “Everyone convicted of murder lives alone. This is the policy of this correctional facility. Edgar murdered both of his parents. He’s no exception”, Fred clarified. Dr. Alter seemed considerate. Not empathetic though. Perhaps, she knows that there’s something rotten in the room besides Fred. Maybe she sensed that my story is not plausible. It is possible; she is a woman. They are sensitive creatures. But she is a social scientist. I don’t know a lot about psychology, but I know one thing: science obeys evidence. No matter how deep she tries to dig into my mind, I am prepared. She will find no evidence there. She will find it nowhere. The objective reality is in my head, and nobody has access to my head. It doesn’t really matter where she got her psychotherapeutic degree. My mind goes beyond her science. All attempts to measure it as merely a statistical representation of what most people would do. It is a probability theory that predicts outcomes for average Joes. I am no average Joe, so I know how to trick her. The probability theory that she worships called science could lead her only towards one conclusion – I am ready to leave this shithole. After all, judgment awaits. I have unfinished business with Mr. Oetker, my uncle. Looking at her ‘rational’ face, I feel amusement. There’s a battle inside of her – her gut feeling fights with her rational self. She already knows what she must do but she will do the exact opposite. She’s an average Joe – science is made for people like her and by people like her. “Mr. Oetker…. Edgar, the evidence is eloquent. Your mental state seems stable, and I will write a recommendation to the Parole Board for your dismissal from this correctional facility,” she pronounced her verdict. “Thank you, Ms. Alter,” I replied. “I appreciate it; one day we might work together on some projects,” I joked. Nobody responded. Fred stood up, stretched his arm towards me. He wanted me to leave the room. I left my comfortable and spacious armchair. “C’mon Edgar, it’s been a long Tuesday. I really want to go home,” he said. “Go now, beat the drum! You will be free soon!” Beat the drum? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! ‘Go now, Beat the drum. You’ll be free soon’ – this was the final phrase of my uncle after each shameful sexual perversion with me and my father. The two molesters would then untie my arms, locked with my dad’s police handcuffs above my head. My mother would then stop the video recording and remove the tape with satisfaction. ‘Go now, beat the drum,’ followed by abrupt opening of the blinds. Damn, I am losing it. “I am losing it, Fred,” I whispered as I was just about to leave the room. “Beat the drum…” “Ed is there something wrong?”, said Dr. Foley and placed his arm on my left shoulder. I turned back and dug my teeth into his decaying neck. I felt the pulsating artery pumping blood to his deteriorating brain. Delicious salty red broth! I plucked it while it was still pouring scarlet blood like a fountain. Damn, that feels nice. His eyes – swollen and fixed at the ceiling, his legs – melting down, his body – sliding on my body downwards. What did I do? I am feeling alive again. I took a pen from the pocket of his apron and let his body fall on the floor. I locked my gaze on the screaming beauty. Now she was looking at me, straight into my eyes. I saw a scared little girl who’s just seen a creepy clown. Much to her regret, I was no clown. But I was creepy. I knew I had to act swiftly; the door was robust, but they were about to be here soon. I grabbed her hands with my left hand and raised my right hand to strike. Fred’s favorite red pen, a half-empty ink cartridge in hard plastic – the perfect drilling tool – first in her left eye, then I pulled it out to pay the due respect to her right eye. A scarcity of annoying voices, delightful heavy breathing, a strong scent of a slaughterhouse. I was there, in the puddle of gore, experiencing euphoria, awaiting judgment.