I Used to Work in a Prison…I mean School

I used to work in a prison.

In this prison an inmate was ridiculed, pushed around and psychologically tormented by his peers.  He feared that rape was on his horizon.

His background was different than others.  He was even poorer than most and therefore ignorant of some of the outside’s finer things.  He was also a little stupid and therefore easily made the butt of amusements throughout the population.

These jokes and pranks were gradually becoming more physical and suggestive in nature.  One time in the Chow Hall he saw some inmates whispering until one of them ‘accidentally’ dropped their fork near him under the table.

“Hey!” they called to him, “Get that for me!”

He hoped that a good deed would grant kinder graces and bent under the table to retrieve.  But he was stupid, remember, and he failed to observe another inmate coming in the opposite direction.  As he stooped to pick up the fork he felt a firm shove across his back that wedged him between the table and his chair.  He was stuck and his posterior was jutted upward into the air.  Their plan successful, those who he hoped to make his friends raced to apply spankings and other evocative humiliations.

Click her to begin reading DS Palmer’s novel ‘St. Bart’s High: Clash of the Classes’ for $0.99

To end the disgrace he pursued a gang.  The gang was initially indifferent.  But he was desperate, and began offering nearly any possession to find safety within their numbers.  Gradually the gang grew to appreciate the windfall of cigarettes and other jail-time valuables that their newest potential recruit was providing for them.

So they let him.  He joined their gang and began to enjoy a life lived without fear of the masses.  He never flaunted his new sense of security, probably because he was too stupid to realize he could have.  But everyone who had used him as an outlet for their frustrations with their different inadequacies knew of their loss, and they resented him all the more.

One night, shortly after he had seemed to find security, the same gang that had seemingly made him safe took it all away.  Before the cells were locked down for the night they invited themselves into his quarters.  After making brief small-talk they rose up and beat him into pile of bloodied mess.  It was quick work, and after he was subdued they took turns beating him and trashing his cell.  They destroyed everything he owned.  When the violence was complete they urinated on him and the rubble that his life had become.

No one stopped anything.  The rest of the population swore he got what he deserved for trying to be something he was not.  He was no gang-banger.  He was stupid, and he should have accepted his lot by absorbing their ridicule with good humor.  So they listened to the crime with satisfaction.

His wounds required weeks to heal.  The warden allowed an even longer duration in the hospital with the hopes that extended segregation from his hell might help him recover mentally.  It did not, but at least he was never raped.

This might provide one and all with enough inspiration to never commit a crime and therefore always steer clear of such circumstances.  Except, I never used to work in a prison.  I used to work in a school.

I worked at a school where everyday kids lived in fear of ridicule, torment and being mind-raped.  And so they join into masses with the hope that they will find some safety from the other jackal-packs.  Often it works.  But with the student…I mean inmate…I mean student…described above, it only worked for a moment before something even worse befell him.

And everyday similar kids…I mean inmates…I mean kids…are forced into that situation without any hope of good behavior preventing their torment.

I used to work in a school.

Click her to begin reading DS Palmer’s novel ‘St. Bart’s High: Clash of the Classes’ for $0.99

Contact DS Palmer at dspalmer@lexmallabooks.com

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