Violations

“I thought, perhaps, we might know each other. You sort of look like…my brother.”

“Do you represent this?” the man asked while pointing to one of many tattoos engraved on his face.

“No. I don’t belong to any gangs in here,” said the man seeking his brother.

“Then you’re no brother of mine,” said the man covered in tattoos.

Staring at graffiti-stained walls, waiting for the nurse to enter, the two continued to sit in the holding cell. And despite the discomfort generated from their discussion, one man, the curious one searching for his brother, occasionally stole looks at the other, trying to make sense of the strange connection he felt with the disturbed individual. 

“It was a year ago, we both came to prison a year ago.” said the curious man.

“Me and my brother, that is.”

The man covered in tattoos looked his foe in the eyes. 

“Shut up.” He warned. “You’re no brother of mine. And if I wasn’t in this wheelchair, I would’ve already snatched the life out of you. So don’t talk to me as if we know each other.”

That strange connection, that feeling within the curious man that insisted he may know the person across from him, vanished. For that display of anger, anger that filled the holding cell with a deterrable evil, was not a character trait of his brother, who he thought the tattooed man may be. 

“They separated us when we got here.” The curious man cautiously uttered, speaking more to the floor than the man responsible for permeating the room with evil. 

“I’ve often worried about him over the years, my brother that is. This place, prison, can change people depending on the path they take. I saw opportunity when I got here and took it. Reading, writing, finding any way to educate myself, that was my path. And God, I can’t forget to praise Him. I know He kept me off that other path in here, the one so many…” The man paused, looked up from the floor and started examining the tattoos and anger etched on the person across the room.

“So many what?” The man in the wheelchair asked. “So many like me? You saying your path is better than mine? These tattoos, to you they resemble something foolish, a wasted life, but to me they represent family. That’s the path I chose in here, family. They’re all who matter to me. The people I used to know out there don’t exist to me anymore. Friends, family, whoever I know out there, are dead to me. My heart no longer recognizes them.”

That display of coldness seemed impossible. “How could someone discard people they have known their entire life?” The curious man asked himself. Of course, he knows the answer: prison. He knows this because a terrible evil exists behind these walls, turning hearts and minds into something unconscionable, something that changed a person forever – but only if an individual chooses that route.

“You could’ve chosen differently,” said the cautious man. “You could’ve taken the path I did. Maybe pride told you not to. Or maybe you were too weak to say no when the wrong people approach you. I don’t know the reason. But I do know you could’ve chosen differently.”

“I chose what I wanted. It had nothing to do with pride of weakness.”

“That wheelchair, the countless hours and days you’re undoubtedly spent in solitary, the anger that fills this room – your anger – did you want all of that too?”

“My anger keeps me respected, and alive.”

“Anger? Solitary confinement? You really think those things kept you alive in here? I’m alive, but not because of anger or violence. It’s about choices and the people I chose to surround myself with in here.”

“You chose to surround yourself with lames and punks. That’s how you survived, which means you’re a punk too.”

“See me how you will, but my path granted me parole. That’s why I’m getting released after I see the nurse. Instead of doing the many years I was sentenced to, I’m only doing one year. So, when you’re in here blinded by pride and anger, I’ll be a free man. And believe me, when I leave prison, you seeing me as a punk will be your memory, not mine.”

A new level of anger covered the tattooed man’s face, and in what seemed to be seconds he wheeled himself across the holding tank and spat in the other man’s eye.

“That’s the memory I will have of you. Your face covered in my spit.”

Undeterred, the man being paroled wiped his face and continued speaking.

“You could turn your life around, choose a different path in here. Let my parole be the motivation to do that. Don’t turn your prison sentence into a death sentence. Walk away from the life you live and the lie you live under.”

The tattooed man remained silent, sitting in his wheelchair, scowling at the floor, continuing to permeate the air with an anger only a heartless killer could possess.

“I’ve seen many angry people in here,” Said the man being paroled. “But by far you are the angriest. The anger that produces your scowl, the anger that puts darkness around your eyes, doesn’t exist on the streets. Only prison can etch that onto someone’s face. You need Christ, my friend, the source of truth and life. Let Him remove the darkness covering your face and heart, the darkness that prevents you from recognizing yourself in the mirror.”

The tattooed man started to wheel himself across the room to project more saliva onto his foe’s face. But before he could reach his destination, the door to the holding cell opened and the nurse entered.

“Tatum Paige,” said the nurse.

The man in the wheelchair changed course and wheeled himself toward the door, leaving the other inmate alone in the holding cell. Alone, the man seeking his brother started to cry, for now he now knew the truth confusion had blocked him from seeing before. And how had confusion accomplished such a task? Perhaps it was the facial tattoos that blinded him. Or maybe it was the layers of demonic rage etched on the mans face that made him unrecognizable. Yet, he should have recognized him, that man in the wheelchair. How could he not? A year ago they entered prison together, one sent one way, and the other another.

Within that year, decisions were made. Ones choices were founded on God’s wisdom that instructs “If sinners entice thee, consent thou not…walk not in the way with them; refrain thy foot from their path. For their feet run to evil and make haste to shed blood.”

So, when approached by other inmates to join them and shed blood without cause, to send other men to their grave, the man remembered God’s instructions. 

“Consent thou not.”

Yes, that is the wisdom the man being paroled followed while in prison, wisdom that rehabilitated his criminous heart and set him free.

The other man’s choices, the man layered in anger and hate, ready to shed blood because the path he chose demands it; well, his choices produced nothing but darkness around his soul, a darkness that made him unrecognizable.  Such were choices that managed to carve images and memories of loved ones from his heart, because all his heart had room for were thoughts of violence and destruction.

And that is why the man being paroled cries. Prison had taken the heart of someone and darkened it with evil, someone he failed to recognize. But when the nurse spoke that name, “Tatum Paige”, the angry man who spat in his face became familiar, for he was someone he grew up with, someone he thought about every day for the past year, someone he entered prison with, and once called brother.