My Bloody Valentine

"Someday, this pain will be useful to you." — The Walking Dead

"RESUME ALL NORMAL ACTIVITY," blasted over the loudspeakers. I was in Clinton Correctional's mess hall. The two inmates involved in the stabbing had been secured by correctional officers, and removed from the area. I had heard those words countless times during my incarceration, it's the standard Department of Corrections instruction after an incident has been handled. However, as they echoed through my mind, those words now had new meaning. Nothing would be normal.

I wanted to scream, to cry. Tell the CO I wasn't going to work. Take a personal day. But this is prison, I don't get personal days.

Tailorshop work is monotonous. Take one piece of cloth, sew it to another piece of cloth, repeat. It numbed my brain. Thank God. I worked until my needle broke and needed to be replaced. It happened at 1:45 P.M.—break time. My brain was deadlocked, so many competing thoughts that nothing could get through. I walked toward the back of the room, and stood in front of the huge glass window. It was mid-February, and there was frost on the panes. The sun's warmth washed my face, and I pressed my hands against the cold glass. I wanted it to hurt. I felt nothing. Then I saw them: two tiny blood stains on the right sleeve of my green sweatshirt. All the bottled up emotions began to surface, so I ran to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. As I scrubbed the blood off, I looked up at the mirror and saw a tiny drop of dried blood on my right cheek. I scrubbed my face as if someone had thrown acid on me. And cried. The primal cry of losing someone you love. I cried and smoked two cigarettes back-to-back. I didn't care about the "No Smoking" sign. My boyfriend had been staked in the neck, in front of me. I splashed cold water on my face, and hid my puffy red eyes under black-rimmed reading glasses. Taking one last look in the mirror, without thinking it, as if it were an echo of a thought my brain misfired, I said, "Happy Valentine's Day."

I came upstate in August, 2008. I was 21, and didn't know what to expect from prison, all I kept telling myself was, "Life is what you make it."

My first prison was Five Points Correctional, a double-bunk facility. I wasn't ready to process everything that had led me here: my long struggle with addiction, the murder I had been convicted of, the shame and guilt intertwined, the legal proceedings, the pain I caused—including my pain. Unable to look back, but unsure of how to move forward, I pursued the familiar: the comfort of a man. I dated Edward for two years, getting engaged within the first year, happy to play house and pretend that I wasn't damaged. It took my father's death in September, 2009, to jolt me back to reality. All the pain I had buried began to surface. I'd find any reason to argue with Edward—screaming fights that lasted from sundown to sunup and would often get physical. Our relationship had run its course, and I knew prison was a much darker place than what Five Points had to offer: I wasn't always going to have a fiancé/roommate to lean on. Serving a 35 to Life sentence, I needed to experience prison on my own so I could find out what I was made of. It was time to face my demons, old and new. My family and friends live on Long Island, so I decided to transfer to a facility that's closer to them.

I put in for Shawangunk, instead I was sent to Green Haven Correctional in August, 2010. Being closer to my family and friends allowed them to visit more, but it also gave us more opportunities to talk about subjects I wasn't ready to talk about. Facing the pain I had caused those closest to me was overwhelming; however, facing the darkness that led me to cause that pain was even worse. I had sold my soul for heroin—allowed the demon of addiction into my heart, body, and mind—drenching my hands in blood for heroin. That shadow of a human was in sharp contrast to the good person I believed myself to be, that popular kid in high school who was friends with everyone and voted Class Gossip. How could I have gotten so lost?

Desperate to escape my reality, I gave into my worst impulse—a cocktail of Ultrams, a synthetic painkiller, and Neurontins, a gabapentin. Breaking my nearly three-year sobriety filled me with shame and wreaked havoc on my self-esteem, giving into the vice all my miseries could be traced back to was irrational and disgusting. I thought I had beaten the monkey on my back—vanquished my demon. I was wrong. Luckily, I didn't want to be that person anymore and was able to get sober by December. However, feeling some of the pain I had caused, the darkness of my crime, and learning the monkey was still on my back had opened the proverbial floodgates. The rush of emotions left a void within; or perhaps the void had always been there, and feeding it awoke it. This is when I met Daniel.

Daniel is six years older than me, and my physical polar opposite. He's 6'2", 220 pounds; I'm 5'7", and 135 lbs. My hair is long and jet-black, his is blond and keeps it military short. Daniel looks like an extra on a Viking movie, while I could be an extra in the live-action version of Pocahontas. I could swim in his eyes; they're big, round, crystal blue pools. My attraction was instant. Friendship came easy to us. We grew up in different worlds, yet we had so much in common—including a shared love of the movie Blow. It was on Christmas 2010 when we became something real—something more than friends.

"I've been called 'The Christmas Nazi.' It's my favorite holiday, and I'm militant about having people share in the festivities. Christmas 2010 was not that. It was as if there were a black hole in the center of my heart—devouring me. All I wanted to do was escape my reality, but my dedication to sobriety would not allow it. Daniel had even less Christmas cheer. He was going through a messy divorce, and hadn't seen his children in over a year. I made it my mission to put a smile on his face. Putting together some expensive chocolates and a pack of Newports (Daniel was a heavy smoker, so it was fitting), I got my Martha Stewart on and beautifully gift-wrapped his present. I signed the tag, "To Daniel — From Santa," and left his gift atop his bed while he was in the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, at around 6:45 P.M., the yard was called and almost everyone left, probably to call their loved ones and wish them a Merry Christmas. I was ready to relax with a 1,000 piece Tin-Tin jigsaw puzzle, and my friends Amy Winehouse, Lauryn Hill, and Fergie, when Daniel showed up at my door.

"Did you leave something on my bed?" he asked.

"Umm, no. Did you check the tag?"

"So how did you know there was a tag?" Busted.

As we laughed, he reached through the gate, put his hand on my shoulder, and looking me in the eye said, "Thank you." Two simple words with an ocean of sincerity. Just "You're welcome" didn't do the moment justice, so instead I placed my hand on top of his while it was still on my shoulder. I squeezed his hand, smiled with my eyes, bit my bottom lip and nodded. He smiled back, said, "Be right back," and ran off. What the fuck?

Had I crossed a boundary? Had I made him uncomfortable? Been inappropriate? Would a curtsy have been more appropriate? I was driving myself insane, when Daniel returned.

In one hand he carried a bucket with a notebook inside, in the other two mugs of hot chocolate topped with marshmallow fluff. He set down the mugs on my bars, and placed the bucket upside down in front of my gate as a stool. Handing me his ink-stained notebook, he said, "This is me."

The notebook was filled with his poetry. Poems about everything from growing up white in the Brooklyn projects to being forced into foster care after the death of his drug addicted mother. He had never shown this to anyone. I was honored. We sat together at my gate, drank hot chocolate, smoked Newports, and shared some of our most personal stories. It was a great Christmas, he gave me the best present: He showed me the real him, and allowed me to show him the real me. And he never flinched; he never judged.

We talked every day after that. My appetite for all things Daniel was insatiable. The attraction between us was palpable, yet neither of us made a move. I felt making a move on a man going through a divorce would be a bit predatory—it's bad form. Besides, he hadn't given me any inclination that he had batted for my team—or was open to the idea. I don't know what I was addicted to more: the familiarity that came with falling for an emotionally unavailable man, or feeling hope at the prospect that he may fall in love with me.

If you go to a bar in Arizona and wear an "I <3 NY" shirt, New Yorkers will gravitate toward you. It's Psychology 101—our nature to seek the familiar. Prison, being a microcosm, takes this simple comfort of wanting the familiar and puts it on steroids. The Department of Corrections by design runs on segregation, conditioning us to be drawn to our own race. Inmates will designate certain phones and sitting areas as White-only, Muslim-only, Brooklyn-only, Latin Kings-only, etc. Most people come to prison from a segregated life and see nothing wrong with the continuation of this mentality, which only adds to the problem: How can people fully experience life if they only know one side of it?

Even though Daniel grew up in Brooklyn, and his soon-to-be ex-wife is Black, and his kids are biracial, while in prison he belonged with the White crowd, consisting mostly of White supremacists. I, on the other hand, grew up in a predominantly Caucasian suburb, but my fluency in Spanish and deep Peruvian roots placed me with the Latin crowd. I'm also a feminine homosexual, which places me with the Gay crowd. Which group I'm more closely associated with depends on the social decisions I make. According to prison mentality, Daniel and I should have nothing to talk about, nothing we could relate to each other about.

Daniel was moved to a different housing block sometime in the last week of January, 2011. We still saw each other in the yard, stole whatever moments we could to ourselves, but his associates made simple conversation a hassle. I've never been one to get hung up on words or insults, but Daniel's "friends" referring to me as the "gay spic" whenever I'd pull him away from the group began to wear on me. It all became too much, and Daniel decided to pull back from me. I wasn't well-versed in prison politics—yet. I took his distance to mean he chose those racist assholes over me.

He made attempts to show me he still cared, leave little notes with smiley faces where he knew I'd find them. He also started showing up at places I frequented: church, library, N.A. meetings. I hungered for more than his presence, I wanted to hear him say that he missed me, that he wanted me. He told me nothing.

Buffy The Vampire Slayer practically raised me. Its final season revolved around the Mouth of Hell threatening to devour the entire town of Sunnydale, each episode carried the ominous warning, "From beneath you it devours." Since breaking sobriety, my black hole whispered to me, "from within you it devours," and now, as I craved Daniel's attention, the whispers became deafening. Too weak to silence my demons, I gave into them.

Daniel and I are addicts. A sick part of me knew if he were to see me strung out, he'd think I was trying to mask some great pain—and he'd care. I began with liquor, getting sloppy drunk around him, and had planned to only go as far as prescription drugs. Morphine killed that plan. My body took to morphine as it had to heroin three years ago. It started out as an act: I'd get sloppy high on the days I knew I'd see Daniel, let myself nod off so he'd have to shake me awake, or I'd take a long time in the bathroom and "discreetly" wipe my nose as I came out so he'd ask me what I was doing. I don't know what was more pathetic, that I hurt myself with drugs to make him care, or that I convinced myself Daniel was really the reason I had broken sobriety? I was so far gone that I don't think Daniel could have reached me, even if he had tried.

Valentine's Day came and went and Daniel still hadn't professed his love or made some gesture of love. So I raised the ante. Diego and I had exchanged a few letters, and though there was no real substance there, Diego had one redeeming quality: He was ridiculously good looking—think Puerto Rican Ryan Gosling. It's the oldest trick in the book, remind Daniel of what he could lose by showing him another man who's ready to take it from him. Diego accompanied me everywhere. I'm a person of extremes, and I took flaunting Diego too far. I clung to him like cigarette smoke. Daniel stopped showing up at our usual haunts. Complete radio silence. My actions had been desperate and manipulative. I wanted to believe I was better than that, so I did the next best thing: convince myself I was in love with Diego. Worst decision I could've made. We dated for two tumultuous months—a crash course in Prison Politics.

I learned Diego was in a gang. Homosexuality is forbidden, gang members caught engaging in any sexual act with another man pay a hefty price—one that is always paid in blood. Diego had told me he was a "businessman" and part of an "organization". I didn't know Organization was another word for Gang. They had fundraisers where they sold colored pens! I thought he was part of a prison company—CEO maybe? But my naivete taught me my most important lesson: In prison, you are measured by how useful you are—everything else is secondary.

Diego's "business" was bringing heroin into the prison, and he was the best at his job. His friends showered me with attention; I was used as a way to court favor from him. I was in over my head, but the power was intoxicating. If someone so much as looked at me wrong, all I had to do was tell Diego and it would be "taken care of." The heroin was intoxicating as well.

When I began abusing Oxycontin, the thought of crossing the line into using heroin was unthinkable, until overnight it was inevitable. Prescription drugs were expensive, heroin was cheap. It was that simple. My boyfriend being the main heroin provider meant a cheap, if not free, constant supply of drugs. I lost myself.

In March, I attended a weekend Catholic retreat. I was smoking a cigarette by the reflection pool, when I heard a familiar voice.

"Hello, stranger."

"My Lord," I replied, curtsying (I had watched The Other Boleyn Girl the night before.)

"How are you?" Daniel asked, his big round eyes fixated on my face.

"I'm fine. I'm happy. How are you?" I said with too much emphasis on happy.

"I'm good. I'm glad you're fine... take care of yourself, okay?" His tone carried a tinge of sadness and concern.

Before I could respond, Diego popped up and told me services were commencing. I started walking toward Diego, but before leaving I handed Daniel the rest of my cigarette and told him to take care of himself as well. There were so many things I wanted, needed, to say, but it wasn't the right time. This was the first time I had talked to Daniel since I began dating Diego. It was also the last time I saw Daniel in Green Haven.

Diego and I were a walking contradiction. Our relationship was forbidden, yet we were. Diego got away with the things he did because he was useful—until he wasn't. His gang split into two factions, a power struggle ensued. During this time, Diego's heroin connection was arrested, consequently putting an end to Diego's reign. His best option was to choose a faction, the winning faction. Instead, he played both sides, got caught, and paid the price.

Diego was stabbed on a Thursday night. I went to breakfast Friday morning expecting to see him, but instead was greeted with the stares of every person in the mess hall. That's how I found out what had happened to him.

A few days later I along with Diego's associates were put under 72-hour investigation while Administration inquired as to why Diego was stabbed and pelted with rocks. I received a letter from him telling me he was okay, but I needed to get out of there because I was in danger. I had figured as much. Illegal homosexual activity aside, in gang-speak I represented a "security risk" since I knew too much about their dealings. Diego's gang had been spoonfeeding me heroin. I wasn't sure why they wanted me borderline comatose, and I didn't stick around to find out. On the last day of the investigation we were all asked to give an urine sample to test for drugs; I refused, which got me 120 days in SHU (Special Housing Unit, AKA "The Hole") and a one-way ticket out of Green Haven. I knew the urinalysis was coming, and I knew what refusing would get me. I didn't leave Green Haven because of the danger—I had learned how to play the game well, and knew I wouldn't have had a problem finding a knight in shining armor. I left because I didn't want to be that person. I needed to grow. I needed to heal.

I arrived at Clinton Correctional on June 6th, 2011. Clinton is known as The Coliseum. It's where men find out what they're really made of. Three days after getting out of SHU, I found myself in the middle of a prison riot. I don't know what the riot was about, but in the end two inmates had been shot by the COs in the tower and 100+ inmates were given a year in SHU for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The COs made us sit on the ground while they secured the situation. We were on the ground until 1 A.M. I didn't mind it. It was a warm August night, I had good company, a pack of cigarettes, and I was happy to be sober. It was a new experience, the novelty was nice. Welcome to Clinton.

According to Charles Darwin, there are 3 things we must do to avoid extinction: Endure, Adapt, Evolve. Being in prison is like living in a barren post-apocalyptic world, every decision we make forces us to question who we are against who we want to be. Having endured two relapses and two breakups, one of which was violent and traumatic, I thought I was entering the Adapt stage of my incarceration—I hadn't even begun. An attempted rape has a way of reminding you to endure.

It happened on the last week of October, 2011. I was taking a shower on the company, as I had done three times a week since I arrived at Clinton. I'm supposed to close and lock the door, but I never did. I grew up in the No Means No era, I thought everyone else did too. I stepped out of the shower, and put on my Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and green bathrobe. When I turned toward the door, he was there. Chickenwing stood at the door, naked, in a Superman pose: chest pumped out and hands on his hip. People called him Chickenwing because his right arm is deformed. The CO's desk is next to the shower room. One of two things would happen if the CO saw what was transpiring: assume Chickenwing and I were hooking up and send us to SHU, or assume it happened against my will and send me to IPC (Involuntary Protective Custody, the place where Administration houses an inmate for his and the facility's safety). Neither outcome appealed to me.

"What are you doing?! Get out!" I whispered.

"Just touch it, please," Chickenwing said as he stroked his erect dick and walked toward me. "I'm just really horny."

With my right hand I attempted to poke him in the eye, but he held my hand down with his left hand—his strong arm. He held my wrist down hard enough to leave a bruise that I nursed for over a week. He tried pulling my underwear down with his right hand, but it proved too much of a task for his deformed arm. He began to overpower me, so I stopped struggling, and allowed him to get close—close enough to smell his breath. It smelled of coffee and stale cigarettes. When I felt his body relax, I kneed his balls as hard as I could. In his pain, he pushed me toward the door. Scrambling to make it out of the room, the strap on my shower sandal snapped and I fell on the tiled floor. My canine tooth went through my chin. I got back up, and walked out of the room. I calmly collected all my shower items, met Chickenwing's gaze, and said, "You fucked up."

"What are you gonna do, get a boyfriend to beat me up?" he said, smirking, but with a wince of pain in his gestures.

The entire incident had played out like a 1920s silent film. It felt surreal. By the time I got back to my cell, every inmate knew something had happened. I closed my cell door, and ran to the mirror. The coppery scent of blood hung in the air. My adrenaline rushed, and I began to cry. I wasn't crying because of what he had attempted to do to me, or the gaping wound on my chin. I didn't know why I was crying. I didn't want to cry, it was involuntary. Composing myself, I looked in the mirror, and said, "Don't be a victim." I had to report the wound to the CO—it was too obvious. I told him I had slipped in my cell and hit my chin on the locker. He believed me. After he walked away, the inmates on my company asked me what had happened. I told them everything. I wanted everyone to know what a creep Chickenwing was. A man named Mohammed offered to punch Chickenwing in the mouth for three packs of Newports. Deal.

The next morning, Mohammed walked up to my would-be-rapist and delivered in spades. He punched out two of Chickenwing's teeth and knocked him out. I spent the rest of the week fielding questions from everyone. At the end of the week, I was called into the Captain's office. I gave him my now familiar story.

"So, tell me what happened that night in the shower," the tall, thin Captain asked.

"Nothing happened. The strap on my sandal snapped, I fell, and my chin hit the corner of my locker. You can ask the officer, I was fine when I stepped out of the shower."

"Alright then. But if you 'fall' again, you're going straight to IPC. You got that?" The way the Captain air-quoted "fall" almost made me laugh.

"I understand. You won't hear a peep from me." I learned another important lesson from the entire experience: There are no secrets in prison, so the secrets you are able to keep are worth something—they're power. I could have reported the COs for neglect—it was an easy lawsuit. I also could have reported Chickenwing and no one could have blamed me. My decision to keep quiet sent a clear message: I was willing to play by the prison rules.

Walking out of the Captain's office and into the yard, I decided to put the whole incident behind me. I refused to let Chickenwing rent any space in my mind and soul. I was lighting a cigarette, when I heard a familiar voice.

"Hello, stranger." I turned around and couldn't believe my eyes.

I looked like the poster child for domestic violence: unkempt hair, huge bags under my eyes, and a Band-Aid on my chin. Daniel looked beautiful. His golden hair had grown, pushed back in a I-just-got-out-of-the-shower style. He had lost weight; he looked healthy and fit. Daniel asked about the Band-Aid, and I gave him the Twitter version of the events that had occurred.

Daniel also gave the Twitter version of what he had been through. His divorce was finalized in June. In July he was caught with a weapon and sent to the SHU. This was his first day out. We had to cut the reunion short because the yard was closing.

"Do you think I could write you a kite?" he asked, his eyes tracing my face.

"Maybe you can write me one, too?"

"Of course. I'll be here tomorrow." I smiled. The first one since the Chickenwing incident.

The words came easy. I wrote Daniel everything that had transpired from the moment we met to our recent reunion. I put a year's worth of events, emotions, mistakes, desires, and regrets into six pages. I ran the risk of making a fool of myself, but after everything I had endured a little embarrassment seemed like child's play. No more regrets.

We met at the same spot as the day before. He greeted me with a smile, but the hole his foot had dug into the ground betrayed his confidence.

"Hi. How are you?" he asked before giving me a chance to catch my breath. "I'm well," I didn't want him to know I was nervous, so I compensated by being formal, "thank you for asking. How do you do?" Better than curtsying again.

"Good, good. You look nice—" I had brushed my hair, gotten a good-night's rest, drank a lot of water, and removed the Band-Aid. Poster child I was no more. "—I was up all night trying to find the right words. It's crazy, 'cause I spent my whole time in SHU thinking about what I'd say to you when I saw you again, and now you're here—"

"Thought about me?" I interrupted. "Daniel, I didn't think you gave a fuck about me."

"Didn't give a fuck? Why do you think I went to all those Catholic events? I wanted to be around you." There wasn't a hint of the nervousness I had sensed earlier.

"Listen, I wrote everything I've wanted to say to you since I met you. It's eight pages, and it's my truth," he said, handing me an empty pack of Newports with his letter inside. I, too, handed him an empty pack of Newports—my six-page letter inside. We laughed at the great-minds-think-alike moment, and went our separate ways.

All I wanted to do was read Daniel's letter, but like a recovering addict breaking sobriety I prolonged the moment. I opened his letter, and placed it atop my bed. Changed into a small tank top and loose fitting pajama bottoms. Washed my face. Smoked a cigarette. Brewed green tea. Smoked another cigarette. Brushed my teeth. I was ready to smoke a third cigarette, but decided it was time to dissect his letter.

"I've thought about you every day since I first laid eyes on you," was his first sentence. It was validation. I hadn't misread his gestures—he wanted me! And his desire confounded him. "I've never felt this way for a guy. I don't know what to call what I'm feeling. I love your personality, I love your sense of humor. I love the way you see the world and the way you make me feel. You get me. And damn that face of yours, it's breathtaking. You're beautiful inside and out."

He detailed everything he had gone through these past few months. He was vague about the prison politics we had endured, and made no mention of Diego. I fell asleep with his letter in my hand.

The next day it was my turn to not give him a chance to catch his breath.

"Why didn't you tell me those things before?" I demanded.

"Why didn't you tell me those things before?" His deflection annoyed me.

"Because you were going through a divorce—it wasn't proper."

"And flaunting some dude in my face was?"

...I had no response.

"Let's move on from all that shit," he said, his eyes holding mine. "I've missed you, you've missed me. Fresh start, okay?"

"Fresh start," I agreed.

To not draw unwanted attention, we played the game of Prison Politics—communicating through hidden letters and stolen moments. Daniel let go of his confusion and doubt. We showed each other the sides of ourselves that we kept hidden from the world—no matter how dark those sides were. It was in the darkness where we felt most at home, exchanging dark thoughts, dark feelings, and dark humor. "I could live just to make you laugh," he'd tell me. Even our moments of intimacy were done in the dark, under the tailorshop staircase. Far from an ideal place, but this was Daniel; I would've had sex in a subway bathroom as long as I was with him.

We were falling in love, but love is a dangerous thing in prison. Love isn't about logic. Love is fire, it's desire and ambition. It's hard to control that kind of fire, let alone keep it secret. It was a matter of time until his friends noticed something was going on between us. We had to change the game.

Daniel invited me to spend Christmas 2011 with him and his friends. Clinton's yard is one of a kind. There's a large hill, and on that hill there are 200+ courts. A court is a plot of land on the hill—a patio of sorts—consisting of: three lockers, a picnic table, and a wood stove. Each clique or area code has a court; there are Spanish courts, Bronx courts, Buffalo courts, gang courts, etc. I was part of the Gay court, Daniel the White-only court. My presence at his court was going to make a statement.

The night was cold, and the snow came up to my knees. Since it was a Christmas gathering, I wasn't coming empty handed. I brought two large bundles of firewood, and two blunts. Daniel was with four of his friends when I arrived: James, Ryan1, Ryan2 (AKA Harry Potter due to his uncanny resemblance to the fictional wizard), and Mickey.

"Yes! You brought wood!" they shouted, almost in unison.

"Ho! Ho! Ho! I bear more gifts!" I proclaimed, showing them the two blunts.

"My man," said Mickey and turned to Daniel. "And here I thought it would be you with the wood when you said Vee was coming." Everybody laughed, breaking the proverbial ice. Mickey wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and brought me to the center of the group.

The six of us sat around the blazing stove, and smoked the first blunt. The heat emanating from the stove made a barrier between us and the cold night—our life-sized snowglobe. I sat in between Daniel and Mickey, my safe zone. It was clear I had won over Harry Potter (Ryan2) with weed and magic related puns, but I could sense Ryan1 and James felt uncomfortable sitting so close to such an overt, unapologetic homosexual. My upbringing had prepared me for situations as this one. I laughed at all their jokes, got them to share details about themselves—where they grew up, what kind of girls they like, drugs they have done. I shared personal, relatable stories—embarrassing childhood moments, and funny party stories of girls I knew they'd like—peppering the conversation with witty banter. By the second blunt, we were all best friends.

Sometime in the night, I took a moment out of the conversation to look at Daniel. He gave me a smile full of pride, and as I returned his smile his hand rubbed my lower back. It was a simple, hidden moment, but it made me warm inside. I felt normal, like I was home again. It was a couple's moment—a rarity.

We were in prison, away from our loved ones, watching the outside world pretend we didn't exist. Daniel and I were supposed to be the saddest people we knew, yet we weren't. We had found an oasis.

I became obsessed with the notion of making our relationship "official." We would profess our love to each other, talk about the places we'd go if we could leave tomorrow—it was always some lonely island made just for us—and do all the freaky things partners do to show each other desire. How could we call each other Bae and Babe, say I love you, and still just be friends? I didn't want the world to know about us, just define what I meant to Daniel. It was an old insecurity of mine: I'm really good at getting guys to like me, it's getting them to commit I can't seem to get right. My mother's words a constant echo in my subconscious, Who's going to buy the cow if you're giving away the milk for free.

I drove Daniel crazy with ridiculous comments like, "I'm not your lover, I'm your whore." I was relentless, possessed by a force larger than myself.

"Relax. I'm gonna make us official," he'd assure me. "I'm waiting for the right time."

I took "right time" to mean Valentine's Day a few days away, his birthday in late April, or my birthday in early May. I never found out what he meant by the right time.

I'm not a morning person, and going to breakfast is mandatory in Clinton. The mess hall is the size of a school gymnasium. The fluorescent lights are harsh, almost blinding. The stools and tables are made of cold stainless steel. The fact that it was Valentine's Day did nothing to brighten my mood, that is, until Daniel sat on the stool in front of mine.

Two days ago Daniel and I had watched Love & Other Drugs, and hadn't spoken since. The movie had hit too close.

"Why are you with me, Daniel?" I said channeling Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

"What do you mean, I love you, you're my Bae." He was clueless of the tirade to come.

"You say you love me," I began, my insecurities dictating my every word, "but, Daniel, you have a few years left on your sentence—I have much more than that. Is that why you haven't asked me out? I'm your sad, beautiful Bae who's rotting in prison, so might as well fuck me while the pickings are good?"

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, you sound crazy. I love you. I am with you."

I did sound crazy, but I wasn't crazy since crazy people don't know they're crazy. I was born with a flair for drama, but this was something else. It was frantic, desperate, mixed in with love and desire. It was addiction.

"Don't be mad at me." A mischievous grin plastered on Daniel's face.

"I'm not mad," I said, fighting the urge to reach over the table to hold his hand. "I have issues. We have issues. We'll work it out though, right?"

"Yeah, of course we'll work it out." His warm smile melted all my doubt. "Here, I got you something," he said, and passed me a pack of Newports under the table.

"You look—"

He rushed Daniel from the left, and plunged the stake into the right side of his neck. Time froze. He had carved a stake out of a wooden broom. This took time, it took planning, I thought. The expression on his face was reptilian—a monitor lizard lunging at its prey. Time sped up once I recognized Daniel's assailant. His name was Jon; bald, no teeth, about 5'6", and in his 50s. The type of man you see at a gas station and try to stay away from because you imagine he smells of cigarettes and mothballs.

When Jon pulled the stake out of Daniel's neck, his blood splattered across the table onto me. Once Daniel got to his feet, it would've been comical had it not been horrific: Daniel had his left arm stretched out and his hand firmly atop Jon's shiny bald head; Jon's stretched out arms were doing the windmill, trying to get to Daniel. Jon's efforts were futile, Daniel held him back until the COs intervened.

"Okay. It's over—stop," Daniel repeated the entire time he held Jon back with one hand. His tone was gentle, almost soothing.

Daniel could've easily smashed Jon's face into the ground, beaten him to a bloody pulp. I knew Daniel would be sent to IPC and transferred to a different facility. Jon took him from me. Didn't Daniel know that as well? I wanted Daniel to hurt Jon—he didn't. I never understood why.

RESUME ALL NORMAL ACTIVITY. On my way to work at tailorshop, I felt every inmate staring at me. They were all waiting to see my reaction. I gave them nothing.

Jon and I had worked together in tailorshop, our machines had been next to each other at one time. I was always polite, always indulged whatever small talk he provided. Sometimes I even asked him how his day was. I never thought my politeness and workplace banter could have been misconstrued as flirtation. I was being nice. Had I led him on in any way? Was all this my fault? My fears were confirmed when I came back to my cell.

"Do you know what the COs found in Jon's cell?" the porter asked, drooling to answer. "Drawings of you on his wall! Everyone knew he was obsessed with you, but that shit was crazy."

"Why didn't anyone tell me he was obsessed?"

"I thought you knew," he said, and walked away.

Apparently, Jon's obsession had been obvious to everyone but me. That realization made me sick. I threw myself on the bed, and cried until sleep took mercy upon me.

I've dealt with stalkers before. In 10th grade someone would text me what I was wearing, where I was at, and then curse at me; I didn't take it serious until "he" texted, "Roses are red, violets are blue, they'll need your dental records to identify you." I told the principle, who said it must all just be a "prank" since I'm always joking on people (that's 2002 for you). Then in my senior year someone would call me at all hours making squirrel noises into the phone; I actually became friends with Squirrel and began telling it all my problems while it squeaked. Although I was aware there was an element of danger in not knowing who the hell was doing it, there was also something whimsical and silly about both experiences. This was not that—at all. I dreamt I was on the phone with a giant squirrel. It pointed at me, accusing me of something, and began bleeding from its eyes, mouth, neck... Too on the nose if you ask me, Dr. Freud.

When a psychopath stakes your love in the neck, in front of you, on Valentine's Day, you subconsciously tell yourself, "This is it, this is all I'm going to have to deal with for now. All my emotional reserves will go to dealing with this." Not for me. Two days after Daniel's attack, my television was stolen.

This is prison—no matter how hurt, depressed, or confused I am, I can never allow myself to forget that. My stolen TV sent the message that I was vulnerable. My reaction to this situation would tell people if I'm prey or predator.

All I wanted to do was crawl in my bed and cry over Daniel—I couldn't. I blocked everything out, and drew strength from my paradigm of what I believed it meant to be strong under horrific circumstances: Jackie Kennedy Onassis. She edited all her interviews; she decided how the world saw her. I chose every word I spoke, every action I made, as if I were reading from a script. My public persona became one long interview. I was the gay, cartoon version of who I thought she was, which was the point: make the real surreal. My self-defense mechanism. Large, round, hide-me-from-the-world sunglasses included.

It took less than a week to find out who had my TV, and how he came upon it. The how was the porter, Fen, had taken my TV when I was at work. Fen was a creep. He used to steal my shorts and draw hearts on them—of course, he'd always deny doing it. I had told him to stay the fuck away from me, and he hadn't taken it well. The who was a low-level gang member, in his early 20s, the type who thinks highly of himself for no apparent reason.

"I really don't care how you ended up with my TV," I said. "Please, just give it back so this doesn't have to go any further."

Perhaps it was because I'm gay; or maybe my high-pitch, nasally, Long Island/Valley girl voice sounded as threatening as a Girl Scout trying to get paid for the Thin Mints he ate. Whatever his reasons, he denied having my TV and brushed me off.

Sometime during my TV crisis, I found the strength to send Daniel a "Get Well Soon" card—Hallmark doesn't make "I'm Sorry A Psycho Stalker Staked You In The Neck" cards. Trust me, I checked. I wanted to write him a long letter, tell him how sorry I felt and how much I needed him, but I couldn't find the words. I couldn't allow myself to feel for fear of falling apart and not being able to put myself back together. I had to be strong.

"Babe, I miss you so much. Shit's CRAZY right now. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Are you okay? I'm sorry for everything. I'm always here for you, you're my priority. Whatever you need—I got you. Tell me what the plan is. I'll follow you wherever. I'm gonna keep this short, I want to mail it ASAP. I love you so much. You're my heart, I can't live without my heart <3"

Prison protocol states that I can't do something to a gang member without going through his gang first. That task was daunting. Luckily, I had an inside man. His name was Cash, and he was in the same gang as the dude who had my TV. Cash liked me—a lot. He didn't need convincing to champion for me, he wanted to impress me.

Cash's gang offered me a deal, two for the price of one: For $175 they'll get rid of the dude who had my TV, and when his property is packed up, the porter will grab my TV and give it back to me; they'll also get rid of Fen, who was a known informant and everyone wanted him gone. I was being used as a political opportunity, his gang wanted to get rid of Fen and the dude-who-had-my-TV. Why not get paid for something they already wanted to do? They gave me two days to make my decision.

His gang was using me, but I was using them right back—and not just to get my TV back. A new TV could cost less, but allowing him to keep my TV sent the dangerous message that people could take from me with impunity. I needed to send a message, but which? What would a person in a "normal" environment do? What would a good person do? What makes a good person, kindness, forgiveness? How many wrong turns does it take a Good Person not to recognize himself? I tortured myself with these questions, always playing Devil's Advocate. I was entering one of the many gray areas in life, forcing me to adapt. How well I adapted would change me—for better or worse was to be seen.

The attack on Daniel was still fresh on everyone's mind when my TV was stolen. I was a wounded animal—and the scavengers couldn't wait to feast on my bones. After Diego was stabbed, some people thought me responsible and took to calling me "The Black Widow." Now I was being called The Black Widow again. I'd pretend not to hear them whisper it. The implication that my love, my feelings, are poison and hurt two men who cared for me was disturbing, and too real—making me feel like an exposed nerve. However, maybe it was time I found strength in words that were meant to judge me. Black widows are dangerous.

Team sports were a big deal in my high school. Being friends with the school's quarterback, he always picked me first or second to be on his team during Phys-Ed. class (an unathletic homo who doesn't know how it feels to be picked last in gym class, that was progress in early Y2K). Before every game of flag football, he'd tell me, "Smell blood and go for the kill." His words had no meaning to me back then, they were a joke football players told each other during a game. Almost a decade later, on February 23rd at 6:20 P.M., I found meaning in those words.

"Do you want this done or not?" the porter, AZ said. "Hurry, the yard's going out."

I paced—debating with myself: Do I want to be prey or predator? I stopped pacing, and looking in the mirror heard, "Smell blood and go for the kill." I turned to AZ and nodded.

Half an hour later the alarm went off, alerting the facility that an incident was occurring in the yard. In that moment I felt the severity of my decision. I had sold a piece of my soul in the name of self-preservation. Was I still a good person? I didn't know; I didn't want to know.

An hour after the alarm went off, AZ came to my cell and handed me my TV. I set it up exactly where it had been taken from, and watched How I Met Your Mother reruns. Beneath my numbness, there was a mixture of pride, satisfaction, and rage—it was vengeance. And I wasn't done yet.

The next day AZ informed me of the morning's epic fail.

"The shooter tried cutting Fen, but he missed."

"Does he know why it happened?" I asked, the only question that mattered to me.

"Nah, he doesn't know shit," AZ assured me.

I didn't want to hear details, I didn't want to know anything. I did know Fen was going to be on high alert. A cornered and scared rat is one of the most dangerous animals, so my plan was to avoid Fen at all cost.

Two hours after talking with AZ, Fen and I were called to Urinalysis. I would have to sit next to him, alone, for at least 15 minutes. Fuck me. Obviously he didn't feel safe, fighting me would've been an easy way out for him. A fighter, I am not.

"Did you have anything to do with what happened?" Fen asked the second we were alone on the bench. His eyes fixated on mine.

"Fen," I began, faux concern dripping off every word, "what are you talking about? What's wrong?!"

Listening to Fen describe how it felt to have a razor graze his face as he ate his cereal, I wasn't me. I was his long lost friend who cared deeply for him. There was no thinking, deception came easy. By the time we left Urinalysis, the two of us walking alone down a long tunnel back to the block, Fen was convinced I was a dumb hoe who knew nothing about nothing. More importantly, he was convinced I was his friend.

"I can't stay here," he said as we entered our housing unit. "I'mma pull a stunt. If you want, I can make something up and tell them to take you too?"

"Thank you, but don't worry about me, Fen." I had to swallow a laugh. "I wish you the best of luck."

Fen told the COs he didn't feel safe, and twenty minutes later he was gone—sent to VPC (Voluntary Protective Custody). The battle was done, and I supposed I kind of won. Message sent: Don't fuck with me. It felt good not to be a victim. Human cost be damned.

In a way, I envied Fen. He had given up the fight and was sent to VPC, a few cells down from IPC—from Daniel. I could have given up too, made up some story and be sent to VPC or IPC. But I didn't; I couldn't. That's not what I'm made of. With that out of the way, it was time to focus on Daniel. The first proof of life came eleven days after he had been taken from me.

"A letter came for you, from a Daniel Mc****, he's in Clinton with you..." Mom said in the familiar singsong she uses when she's fishing for information. "He had a lot to say, the letter is at least eight pages long."

"Can you please send me his letter—ASAP." Her knowledge of how many pages the letter was did not escape me.

I told my mom the PG13 version of what Daniel and I had been through. I had sugarcoated most of it, but hearing the story aloud was worse than hearing screeching tires before a car accident. Hanging up the phone, I was filled with hope. It was bittersweet. "He had a lot to say," her words echoed through my mind. I considered calling my mom back and asking her to read the letter to me, but reminded myself that patience is a virtue.

I never received his letter. Mom swore she mailed it—I accused her of sabotage. I sent Daniel countless letters. After a month, it wasn't the lost letter that was driving me crazy, it was that he hadn't tried to reach me again.

"Mommy, tell me the truth, did you really send the letter?" The hundredth time I asked her that.

"Yes! For crying out loud, baby, if a man wants to talk to you, he will find a way. Maybe it's better that you never got his letter."

"Mother," I said, sensing her wary tone, "why do you say this now?"

"Okay. Please don't get upset with me," she said, "but I read some of the letter... It wasn't good... He was saying goodbye."

"A Dear John letter... who writes an eight-page Dear John letter?" I asked myself.

"I think he just didn't know how to say goodbye. I'm sorry."

"You listened to me cry for a month, and you said nothing." A statement, not an accusation.

"You were supposed to receive the letter—it wasn't my place to comment."

"But it was your place to read my mail? You just didn't want to get caught," I thought, but bit my tongue. She's my mother, respect must be paid.

I wasn't upset at her gross invasion of privacy, but relieved. I didn't want to know details. All I needed to know was that he didn't want to try anymore. From within you it devours. I gave into my void: Fuck reality. Morpheus took me into his dark world; a cold, long—yet familiar—slumber that lasted six months. Morphine and Heroin became my only friends.

I can break down my six-month binge into three distinct parts:

The Beginning, which lasted from March to May, is characterized by an insatiable hunger for escape. I didn't want to feel anything. Everything reminded me of Daniel, of loss, of hurt—of his rejection. It suffocated me.

The Middle lasted from early May to late August, and it was brought on by a specific event: a birthday card from Jon.

"Happy Birthday Beautiful. Why haven't I heard from you? Please don't leave me like this. Can't you see I did it for you? You're magnificent, you deserved better than him. Please write me back at this address. She'll make sure I get it."

He included lyrics to Radio Head's High & Dry. Unadulterated rage coursed through my veins, and I ripped up his card into a million pieces—until my hands bled. I guessed his mother had forwarded his letter, so I kept my response simple:

"Your son took something very special from me. I hate him.
If you forward his letter again, I will burn your house down."

I have no memories of summer 2012. My brain went on auto-pilot. It was exactly what I wanted. I felt nothing.

The End was sharp. I felt it all at once. One late August morning, I woke up and took a long, deep breath—the type a drowned person takes after being resuscitated with CPR—and it brought me back to the world of the living. I woke up wanting to feel again. Problem was, without drugs to buffer, feeling even a little bit meant feeling everything at once. I didn't just feel hurt, I felt shame—levels of shame.

In the last two years, against all moral responsibility, I had broken sobriety; dated a gang member to make a man going through a divorce jealous, and lost him when he was stabbed and stoned by his gang; survived a rape attempt, and paid to have his teeth knocked out; dated and loved my original crush once his divorce was finalized, only to lose him too when a stalker staked him in the neck on Valentine's Day; had my TV stolen when the vultures sensed weakness, to show "strength" I cosigned the stabbing of a young gang member whose name I don't know and face I can't remember, along with a creepy informant who signed into VPC when the razor grazed his face. Well, when it's put like that... Saddest part of all, everything I did and experienced would've been worth it had I ended up with the boy—not only did I lose him, I didn't even get to say goodbye to him."There must be something wrong with me," I decided. And I wasn't just talking about the manipulation, desperation, addiction, and void within. I loved Daniel, he had bled for me, and truth was I was relieved that I didn't have to face him and tell him goodbye. I didn't know how to put into words the guilt I carried for not realizing the psycho in our midst, or how sorry I was that loving me had caused him harm. What kind of monster can't find the words to say goodbye to someone he loved and hurt?

"Daniel must've seen the true monster inside," I told myself, "that's why he wanted to get as far away from me as he could." I wasn't good—worthy—enough for Daniel to fight for us. All the pain, suffered and caused, for what, so at 25 years old I could be called The Black Widow and wear a perpetual Scarlet Letter? Worrying how I was affected felt wrong. Selfish. Daniel was the one with the hole in his neck, but I was the one who needed to be punished.

The pattern continued—fall in love with men I shouldn't, lose that love, feed the black hole with drugs and pain—until summer 2014, when I watched the man I love stabbed 19 times (long story for another time). "Never again," I swore. Not exactly sure what I was swearing off, all I knew was that I couldn't allow my demons to hurt more people I love. From within you it devours...

In October 2015, after four years in Clinton, I was transferred to Wende Correctional, a much smaller facility. For the first couple of months, right before they'd call yard, I'd have paralyzing anxiety attacks—tight chest, shallow breaths, heart raced, time slows—in anticipation of violence. I'd have to remind myself that life in Clinton wasn't the norm, people aren't supposed to always expect someone to get hurt. By the summer of 2016 I had worked through the anxiety, when Jon came to Wende and landed ten cells down from me. I believed that when I saw him again I'd feel fear and anger—I felt pity and disgust. I also believed I owed him pain; however, as he stood in front of me, four years and five months after taking Daniel from me, I realized if I hurt him it wouldn't be justice—it was vengeance. That's not the person I want to be. Still, there was NO WAY we could have lived together. Jon solved the problem for me.

All I did was send my friend to Jon's cell with a message: You can't live here, you have to be out by tonight. How he interpreted that was up to him. "I can't live here," Jon told the Sergeant, "the inmate in three-cell, I stabbed his boyfriend in Clinton. He's known to put hits out on people. I don't feel safe here." Jon handed the Sergeant some paperwork, I assumed it was his Misbehavior Report for staking Daniel in the neck, and ten minutes later he was gone—sent to VPC. I was put under 72 hour investigation. When the Sergeant came to question me he couldn't believe someone could be scared of little ol' me. I played the part masterfully, clueless about everything. The COs made a joke of Jon's accusations, assuming he must've made the whole story up, and I was let go.

Months later, Fen also arrived at Wende. I had caught sight of him here and there, lurking in the hallways, for a few weeks. Last time we spoke I had posed as his "friend", but something in his demeanor let me know he had figured out the truth since then. I was preparing to leave the mess hall, when Fen came in and sat on the stool across from me. He shook his head, and said, "Why did you get me sent to PC [Protective Custody], that was not cool, Vee." His greasy voice sounded as if it were filtered through a meat grinder.

Fen's attempt to rewrite history was pathetic and nonsensical. Instead of wasting time, I got right to the point, "You were in voluntary PC, not involuntary PC, and you know damn well you did it yourself—there are at least ten people here who can attest to that. Listen, I know the dirty games you play. I've been here for two years without any problems or drama. If you do anything to mess this up, I will have someone blow your face off." I picked up my tray, and walked away before he could respond. To anyone watching I was the picture of confidence, inside I was happy I hadn't stuttered and praying I didn't trip since I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

I didn't mean the threat, at least I don't think I did—no one truly knows what they're capable of until they're tested. That night Fen signed into VPC. I don't know if it had anything to do with what I had said, people like him are always in some shit, but being 2 for 2 kind of had a nice ring to it.

Jon's and Fen's return and sudden departure forced me to question myself: What have I become that the nightmares from my past were now afraid of me? It was frightening to look in the mirror, and not know who was looking back.

I titled this story before learning it was already the name of a movie. I don't know about the original, but in the remake the protagonist unwittingly turns out to also be the villain. I can relate. I hurt three people in the name of survival, and I must admit I enjoyed not being a victim. Chickenwing's attempted rape hurt; losing Diego and Daniel violently hurt; being robbed at my lowest moment hurt; and my pain had an echo—I wanted someone else to hurt. When my TV was stolen, I refused to show weakness, but never took the time to know his name. He'll forever be known as the dude-who-had-my-TV. Life can't be cheap. If you hurt someone, you must remember that person's name. It's a cross you must bear.

The void within still whispers to me, maybe it always has and always will, but I don't run away from it—we can't run from ourselves. Instead, I've learned to listen to it, ride my peaks and valleys. Every scar my soul bears reminds me of the choices I've made and their consequences. Thriving in prison comes at a price, you can't swim dirty waters and expect to stay clean. I chose not to become prey, and by definition became predator—but I can choose what kind of predator I want to be. True predators don't hunt for sport, they hunt to live. My hunger isn't for pain, drugs, or men; I hunger for atonement—to leave a mark in this world that says, "I contributed; I lived."

How can 3 people keep a secret? If 2 of them are dead. Diego, Daniel, and I are bound by the story we share, each with a unique perspective of how the story played out and what it meant. A friend of Diego who was with us in Green Haven told me Diego had seduced his counselor, and married her when he got out of prison. I don't know if it's true, but it sounds like something he would do—good for him, our version of a Happy Ending. I don't know what kind of ending Daniel and I get, I suppose we don't. I think about him every now and then, wondering if he's home with his kids, if he ever thinks about me, if he has found love. If he's happy. When I quit smoking I picked up a habit that still comes in handy. Sometimes I have a hard time looking in the mirror, seeing the faces of all the people I've hurt. So I place a pen between my index and middle finger, bring it to my lips, and take a deep drag as if it were a cigarette. Fresh air fills my lungs, I exhale the fake smoke, and say, "I'm sorry." I am sorry for all the pain I've caused, and I'm also sorry to any motherfucker who mistakes me for prey.