And it wasn't even my nightmare. It was Ritchie's, my cellmate.
But I had to listen to it. To hear his wails from the depths of hell, terror striking so deep it tapped into the worst human fears; he'd wake up covered in sweat, his sheets stained beyond repair.
Over time I learned the details, even though the circumstances he described could never be lived.
Ritchie's a Formula 1 driver, wearing a suffocating suit and suffocating helmet, as required. He has a wreck, he's sealed in the car, seat belts fused together; cut off and alone, doomed without recourse.
And he's on fire. But not any fire, an alcohol fire which no one can see. Communications with the pit severed in the wreck.
He's crippled, unable to move, to reach out, buried alive, burning to death right before his eyes, screaming at the top of his lungs and help - if any help is possible - is too far away.
To this day I cannot watch that type of racing. I can't take the chance on seeing Ritchie's nightmare come true and that somehow I'd live it too.
At the time, I thought it was a metaphor for his being in prison: condemned in a helpless hell, drowning in torment. After all, Ritchie had never done any sort of racing in his life.
Man, was I wrong on that. And the truth is more frightening than what I ever imagined.
For you see, Ritchie's sentence ended and he was to be set free. I still had time to do but was happy be rid of his nightly wailing and actually happy so miserable a creature could at last have a chance to heal.
On the day of his departure, though, he was curiously quiet but went through the motions of a man on his way out. Then came time to leave.
Ritchie refused.
I literally saw him sit on his bunk and softly say, "I'm not leaving,"in the most determined resolve
I thought I was in a movie or something. Maybe being pranked. I was too gobsmacked to speak as the guard grabbed him by the arm to lead him out.
Like a violent animal, Ritchie yanked back, retreating to the farthest corner of the bunks, gripping the frame as if he were hanging from a pole ten stories high.
Another guard came and they began to pull him out.
"No! No! I'm trapped! I'm trapped! Someone get me out of here! God help me! God help me, please!"
Prisoners within earshot were as shocked as I was. I sensed a silence in the cells I've never heard before or since.
I saw the look of frozen fear on Ritchie's face. It's something you don't forget. I saw a man being tossed off a thousand foot cliff and heard him scream all the way down.
That's the only way I can describe Ritchie's being dragged out of there as I heard his squalling down the corridor to the prison exit.
Worst part was, afterwards no one wanted to talk about it, or even mention it. Were some remarks I heard at the time. "Dangdest thang I ever saw!" and what not. But that was it.
Not even the guards gossiped about it. It was as if Ritchie had touched something unmentionable in every man's soul.
Took a good while for me to get to the bottom of it. I had to let the truth seep in slowly to be able to absorb it. And when I had, I swore I'd never publicly speak of it.
You see, Ritchie lived with an unexpressed soul. He never once didn't lie about his feelings and couldn't stop himself - or find a way out. It was all this desperate creature knew to do.
Being in prison was his way of expressing that. His incarceration was his way of communicating his true life. But who the hell in this Godforsaken planet can even understand his dilemma, much less address it?
He'd always pretended to be the "happy child" for his parents from what I gathered. Maybe he never stopped the lying, forever wrecking his life and prospects in the process. Dear God!
No person here is going to speak of that crime. In fact, Ritchie's exit and the tale thereof changed the entire culture of the prison. Veterans of other prisons remark on the "strangeness" of this place.
Who do we blame for this tragedy? Ritchie? His parents? An unforgiving world? God himself?
Nature is bigger than all of us. Ritchie forced that consciousness on our souls as we dwell now in somber anticipation of our own day of reckoning.
God help us all.
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