Survival is the bare minimum. Everything considered remotely alive is created with survival instincts, the innate functions to last through the days with prowess and primal content. Organisms are made to survive. But in the grand scheme of things, very few specimens are actually created to live.
And how do you do that? How do you live?
Well, to live is to know, and to know is to suffer. Mankind was designed to never truly be satisfied—to consistently reach for more. It’s like we were programmed with this great purpose that we can’t precisely remember, so we constantly search for what we think will make us “whole.” If it wasn’t obvious, simply surviving does not make us feel whole. So I’ll ask another question; how do you obtain the tools necessary to fulfill this unknown, ever-searching purpose? I’m sure you already know. As evolution would tell, intellect is humanity’s only true savior.
But if you combine all this and slush it up in the cocktail of life, you tend to get misery. Humans don’t have some whimsical, forgotten purpose. We just exist. And because our minds are so beyond the natural order with all our intellectual complexities, we create wars and systems foreign to everything else that grace this soil. But hey, we know far more than any other species. We know how to live. We, as people, believe this involuted knowledge makes us superior, but really, for the average Joe or plain Jane, a developed mind just leaves mental room for sadness and trivial doubts that devour us from the inside. Why else would you see so many depressed rich people? They’re not like the homeless or third-world citizens; with thoughts of survival rarely crossing their minds, they live, and tend to live well.
Again, to live is to know, and to know is to suffer.
Throughout documenting and rewriting these journal entries, I’ve become very familiar with the concept of ‘knowing.’ If you’ve been following these posts (which, by the way, thank you so much if that is the case), you could probably name a person and associate them with knowledge (primarily obtained through unnatural means). Mathematical genius, awareness of certain things that should be impossible to know, hell, even sexual information obtained in a person’s presence. To know was very much valued in Ophelia Hollow Prison.
But…was it worth it?
Throughout my time studying and rewriting these old excerpts, I’ve made connections between negativity and knowledge. Knowledge creates unwanted and obtrusive opportunities. It creates a sense of narcissism; a constant cloud of judgment that can’t be shaken off. It leaves people overwhelmed. Some knowledge is our salvation; some is utterly useless. The problem is that nobody can pick and choose the knowledge they desire; knowing everything requires a hopeless sea of ineffective information. That has the potential to create a lot of sadness.
If you ask me, knowing everything isn’t worth the suffering. But Myles Monroe, in the blooming spring of 1981, could not have disagreed more.
I’ve learned a lot about that man; most discoveries being unpleasant (though some nuggets of information proved worse than others). If you told me to summarize his teenage self, I would probably scatter for an answer. I mean, what was I supposed to say? A cokehead? An 80’s equivalent to a fuckboy? No, no. I mean, those are valid answers, but my response would be one word. Inquisitive.
Always wanting to know, always going out of his way to get his precious answers. Usually, in the unprofessional, abnormal labyrinth of Ophelia Hollow Prison, he had to pry. He had to snoop around and investigate. But in this fragmented entry, the answers he so desperately desired were graciously handed to him on a silver platter. Awesome. What could go wrong?
That’s a stupid question. Everything could go wrong. Something was destined to go wrong. The better question is, what went wrong?
Welp, I don’t know how to say this gracefully. Just keep reading and find out. Though, if I’m being honest, shit doesn’t hit the fan until the upcoming second part. Also, if you’re super confused, you could read up on some previous posts. It wouldn’t hurt.
Alright, this has gone on for far too long. Let’s get into the real deal. Without further ado, here is today’s entry:
….
“I feel like almost everything you do is to make others happy.”
That sentence reverberated through my head for a few seconds. With a fogged mind and a stare fixated in no particular direction, I let those words dissolve into nothingness. But the speaker made sure to leave her impact somehow.
“I can tell by the way you act.” Venus Eve peered up at me after saying that. “At some point, you groomed yourself to constantly be satisfying others.”
I didn’t respond. My body was in my cell, but my mind was in an unrecognizable void. That often happened during free time—right after the slight buzz ended. Venus seemed indifferent.
“Well, you know about my gift. So I’ll let you in on a little something.”
Shit, she’s about to tell you something personal. Get your head out of your ass and listen.
I blinked in a vague attempt to snap out of my daze. “…Alright.”
“When I first bumped into you, I was honestly overcome with information—more than I usually am. And from the moment we met, I knew just how fixated you are on pleasing others. At this point, you do it subconsciously.” She snickered, “and I thought, ‘wow. That could be really useful to me. But…it’s also really sad. He’s never happy, is he?’”
Am I?
She took her hands and started running them through my hair. “But after a few days, I realized that you derive joy from making people happy. Really, you’re not motivated to satisfy people. Pleasing them is just the method you use to feel better. A means to an end. So, your act is inherently sad and painfully over-considerate, but you make it selfish.” She shrugged, “I’ve always found that interesting.”
I looked at her with a cocked brow. “Are you happy right now?”
“Yeah.” She said that with her typical blank face. I didn’t take offense.
“Well, at least I could satisfy you.”
She tilted her head. “What’s going on?”
“Trotsky.”
“Jeez, are you ever not thinking about him?” She laughed, “how’d storage closet guy break your heart this time?”
I loosely explained everything. Under normal circumstances, the words that came out of my mouth would’ve been borderline humorous with their absurdity. “Trotsky and I got stuck inside a book and got crazy high in a lake because I’m being stalked by a clown who used to be my shower therapist. Ever since, Trotsky’s wanted him dead.” If I had heard that before arriving here, I would’ve laughed and prayed I never became that type of druggie. It all sounded so stupid!
But it was true.
Especially that last part.
If I was fixated on satisfying others, killing Bozo was Trotsky’s fresh fixation.
I vaguely pieced together the portrait of what had transpired between the two. At some point after movie night, a lonesome Trotsky stumbled across Bozo. Despite my unpardonable tale about him, my cellmate pursued a friendship with the clown anyways. I mean, surely it was a different prison clown who tried to bite my finger off, right? Besides, I know Bozo. He’s a damn good talker. He could lure Trotsky into a friendship in a heartbeat. It seems as though he did just that. And sometime during my dark days processing the cult revelation, Bozo mentioned the library. In my mind, it was real subtle. Just casually, while they were occupied with something else, as if it wasn’t really important. But it piqued Trotsky’s interest, so he got stuck in that cycle of strolling to the library every morning to chase that grandiose quick fix.
And this high—that euphoria the fictitious, otherworldly lake brought, was everything Trotsky had ever wanted. But it was killing him. It fed off of his energy; off of his bought soul. Bozo, by putting him in this vicious cycle of highs and lows, was terminating him. Trotsky was too blinded by bliss to notice, and now that he was out of his routine with only the crippling consequences to keep him company, he was utterly ashamed.
Bozo made a fool out of him. He used him, turning big, strong, bold Trotsky into a distressed damsel for me -with my “effeminacy” and “distasteful flamboyance”- to save. He would never admit it, but that was torturous to his ego.
So, how do you mend the confidence of a stupid, sadistic, suicidal teenage convict? Easy. You kill whoever annihilated his fragile self-worth in the first place.
Trotsky opted to do just that. But that’s easier said than done when dealing with a sly clown during such a crucial recovery phase.
Trotsky had just started walking on his own again. He was basically bedridden for about a week; any unexpected or remotely spunky movement sent him into a coughing frenzy. He sounded so tragically ill, and I came to his side every time he couldn’t stop coughing. I sorta took on the role of his caretaker. That was yet another beatdown on his ego. His hands were constantly shaky, and he managed to sweat bullets through the most simple tasks. Even with his inhuman strength, for about a week, he was in no condition to kill Bozo.
But I was.
He replaced one routine with another.
Every time we would interact, he would conjure up some small talk before ramming me with his big question.
“Have you killed the clown?”
“How is that clown?”
“Is he dead yet?”
“When will I see his head on a wooden stake?”
He even teased me.
“If you kill him, I’ll give you a kiss.”
“If that’s not enough, I’ll give you more. You can have me. All you need to do is bathe in the clown’s blood. Really make him suffer.”
Then he would mash his comical words with more identical questions.
“Do you have a picture of the clown’s corpse?”
“Have you slit his throat?”
“Is he still breathing?”
I never had the answers he desired. That always made his brow furrow. I expected that with time, Trotsky would get less and less persistent, but the opposite seemed to be occurring.
As he recovered, he became much more aggressive about fulfilling his irrational desire.
Just the other day, I was running my hands under the sink before I felt Trotsky’s arms wrap around my shoulders. He was gentle, but his forearms pressed against my collarbone in an undeniably threatening manner. He came real close to my ear, whispering in a hauntingly husky tone.
“Myles…” he called my name in a singsong fashion, “I always liked how you walked.” His body somehow inched even closer to mine. I gulped.
Trotsky hummed low in his throat as a response. “You have a very confident posture. It’s attractive; the way you always stroll in here, swaying your hips, kind of like a woman.”
I froze, drawing out an icy sigh. “Alright, I know this is prison, but you can at least invite me to ‘dinner’ first or something. Whatever. Chivalry truly is dead, I guess.”
“Oh, no, no. Get that image out of your head; I’m not doing that.” His breath brushed up against my neck. “I’m just wondering if you walk like that for a reason.”
I knew where he was going.
“Is the clown dead?”
“…No, Trotsky. Honestly, I don’t even know how you expect me to kill him.”
“Come up with a plan.”
Silence permeated the air for what felt like an eternity before he spoke again.
“I really like you, Myles.” His embrace tightened with firm yet subtle power, emphasizing just how quintessentially menacing he could be, “but if that clown keeps living, you will not be able to walk so nicely anymore.”
…Fuck. Trotsky was regaining his strength, getting more tenacious by the second. It occurred to me that I needed to eliminate that clown, and I needed to do it fast. But geez, that was just so scary. Bozo seemed unobtainable through any remotely normal circumstances. He was like a sinister star, always in my dim sight, yet never in my reach. And that wasn’t even mentioning the elephant in the room. Trotsky was out for blood. He wanted me to take a man’s life.
“Would it make you feel better if I took your mind off it?” I snapped back to the present as Venus gave me a wry chuckle. “It’s not a good look if I leave my boy toy when he’s in such a mopey mood…”
Before I could even give a definitive answer, she went along anyway. She could be really patronizing when she wants to. “You know what? The way you talk is really interesting. I think you’ve always hated your little accent. You’ve trained all those New York speech habits away, but they still slip out when you get all riled up. It’s kinda funny; you sound like real NYC scum when you’re angry.”
“Venus, this isn’t gonna make me feel any better.”
“Then what will?”
“Getting some information on how to kill a goddamn clown!” Wait.
A rare moment of borderline brilliance cascaded through my mind. I needed information from someone knowledgeable. I still needed to notify Dolly about everything I discovered. There was a slight chance I could kill two birds with a single stone.
“Do you know a female inmate by the name of…” shit. I forgot Dolly’s actual name. “I dunno. Something similar to Dolly but, like, way more dramatic?”
“No, why would I?”
“Well, I mean, she’s a white girl, and you’re a white girl, so….”
She finally detached her hands from my locks. “Not all white girls know each other, Myles.”
“Okay, but it’s really important that you do know her! I need to contact her, but I don’t even know where I would find her. I know separation guidelines aren’t taken super seriously, but I can’t just waltz my way to the woman’s side of the prison and search for her!” I sighed, “come on, Venus, surely you know a little blonde British girl. She has blue eyes. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”
“Oh please, there’s an entire group of girls identical to what you just described.”
She went silent before a devious sparkle flew across her eyes. “You know what would help?”
A beam of hope yanked at my heart. “What?”
“Describing her type.”
“What?!”
“You know how my gift works. And I know that all those little blonde girls are very distinct regarding their preferences.”
“This is stupid!”
“Stupid or not, if I met this chick, I’ve probably forgotten everything but her type.” She puffed her chest, seemingly proud of herself, “I keep all the good information in a little mental folder. Everything else is unimportant, but it’s hard to forget a person’s preferences, kinda like-”
“Riding a bike?”
“What? No. Why would it be like riding a bike?”
“Because that’s how the saying goes.”
“Well, I’ve never ridden a bike, so that’s stupid.” She held her head high in a haughty fashion, “maybe you should just leave sayings to the intellectual here, babydoll.”
“‘Intellectual’? Is that what they’re calling sluts nowadays?”
“No, if that were the case, you would be famous.” She snickered, “Myles Monroe: America’s greatest intellectual.”
I laughed. “You play real mean, Venus.”
“Always n’ forever. Now hurry up and tell me what this British girl’s into!”
I had to think about that for a second. Honestly, most of the words spewing from my mouth were guesses. “Um…she seems like she’d appreciate a sorta smart and sensitive type—someone real considerate and straight-laced. I can imagine she’d be keen on good hygiene, too. So basically the opposite of Trotsky.”
“Opposite of Trotsky…” an adorable look of realization plastered itself onto Venus’ face, “oh!”
Suddenly, her expression of elation died out, being replaced with a pitiful grimace. “…Oh. That poor thing.”
“So you know her?”
“I’m aware of her.”
That was just what I needed to hear. I smirked. “You’re a professional sneaker, yeah? Do you think you can invite her here tomorrow?”
I took notice of Venus’ furrowed brow. “You’re not trying to get in her pants, right?”
“No, that would just be gross.”
A sigh of relief blessed her lungs. “Thank the gods.”
“Nah, thank you.”
I lifted her chin with a light hand. “You’re basically saving my life here, Venus. This is, what? Like, the third time?”
She laughed, clearly appreciating the flattery. That was good, but tarnished by the fact that she still wasn’t smiling. It was so strange to see someone laugh with a blank face. “Aw, all I did was open a door and crush a weird spider those two times. It’s nothing, really…but I guess I’m glad it makes you so happy.”
“You know what else would make me happy?”
We looked each other right in the eyes, staining Venus’ cheeks a light shade of pink. Her glimmering green eyes drifted to a faraway corner once she discovered the color on her face. “What?”
“Seeing you smile some more.” I tried to whisper in a gentle tone to match the tender moment.
“Not happening, buster.”
“Aw, come on, pretty please?” I laughed a little, “y’know, Myles rhymes with smiles.”
“Yeah? Well, I can think of something I want too.” She looked into my eyes again, “I’m sure you know what Venus rhymes with.”
…Will I ever know Venus Eve past her jaded sensuality and stupid sex jokes?
I dropped it, and we soon said our goodbyes afterward. I spent the rest of the day imagining my encounter with Dolly. I hoped that she and I would craft solid conclusions together with both of our knowledge. I was really anticipating hearing her advice on how to kill Bozo.
At breakfast the next day, I picked at my food and thought about those two latter words. Kill Bozo…I was really preparing to commit a murder. How could I even get away with that? Wait, ignore that; how would I even bring myself to do it? I would be burdened with the fact that I had stolen someone’s mortality away for the rest of my surly days. How would that change me? I was already carrying a surplus of sins and agonizing information on my back. Would killing a man be the final straw? Would it break me?
…
I swallowed my questions down to the depths of my mind with shaky hands. That was the only thing I could do without having some sort of meltdown.
Before I knew it, free time rolled around once more, and I was face to face with Dolly. She was even paler and smaller than I remembered her to be.
We sat on the frigid floor and exchanged basic greetings before I shared some of my experiences. She watched me explain myself with calculating eyes, deciphering my information with zero hints of curiosity. When I finished, she scoffed.
“Well, I’ll have you know that I didn’t really learn anything. Nothing useful, anyway.” She cynically snickered, “I already knew about the cult, and it’s obvious that the warden isn’t an evil mastermind. The rest of your miscellaneous adventures frankly seem rather insignificant. All I got out of it is that you, Venus, and that infamous Trotsky fellow are all unlikable.”
She craned her neck, glaring at me all the while. “You should be kinder to snakes. I, for one, quite like them.”
“Makes sense.” I murmured, “you act like the 20th century’s Medusa.”
“That’s not an insult. I quite like her too. More than I like you.”
“Well, I’m sorry my information wasn’t as useful as you would’ve liked. Next time I’ll make sure more interesting stuff traumatizes me. But I have something else I need to talk about.”
“And what is that?”
“You know a lot, right?”
“I know everything.”
“Alright. So do you know how to assassinate a clown?”
…
“Exactly.” I sighed, disappointed that Dolly lacked wise words on how to take out Bozo. “Look, this clown is the biggest threat here. He’s unhinged. I don’t think he’s gonna stop terrorizing people unless…we get rid of him. So I need info on this guy. If there’s anybody, -anybody at all- who might know about him, let me know.”
“I do know a guy.” She looked up at me with stern eyes. “If anyone actually knows everything, it’s him. The impressive thing is that it has nothing to do with his gift. I don’t know how he’s so good at fishing for information, but I’m unwilling to shake his hand and find out. He’s too useful for his image to get tarnished.”
She muttered that last part, brows knitting in a clear sign of distress. Then, remembering I was still in the room, she perked back up.
“I suppose I could schedule you an appointment with him.”
“Schedule an appointment? Wow, now isn’t that fancy?”
“It’s not fancy. You’re just a dumb tosser.”
I can’t lie; Dolly seems like a real bitch. I mean, what did that even mean? How was I supposed to respond? I wasn’t. We sat in silence for a moment, and for some reason, I felt hollow.
In my mind, our discussion was supposed to be far more lively. She was supposed to display that hint of kindness shown during our last conversation, and we were supposed to help each other. In reality, it was more of a pathetic transaction. I failed her, she failed me, and she was just going to hand me off to some other person. We said what we needed to, and we could depart, utterly distant and dissatisfied. I was expecting her to leave at any moment, but she peered over at me with cutthroat curiosity instead.
“You plan to kill this clown?”
“Yeah…I mean, it’s justified.” That’s what I told myself. Murder was justified because Bozo was so wicked. My entire body shook simply thinking about it. I couldn’t hide my deprecating thoughts any longer. “In all honesty, I don’t want to. I’ve never killed a person before. I don’t want to! Taking a life like that….”
Tears welled up in my eyes before I could finish my sentence. My throat tightened as I imagined having to witness the light drain from the clown’s eyes at my bitter touch. A wave of guilt made my veins ache. “I still don’t know if I could even bring myself to do it.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“Huh?”
“If you’re going to be a big baby about it, I’ll kill the clown.”
“Oh, Dolly, no.” I frantically shook my head for emphasis, “I could never ask that of you. I mean, you’re basically a little girl!”
“It’s not that big of a deal.” She crossed her arms with a low-hanging head.
For a second, she showed the tiniest bit of emotion—vulnerability. Her regretful, melancholic eyes showed me that she was less stoic than she made herself out to be. And that’s when she said it.
“I’ve killed a man before.”
This daunting divulgence reached my ears with shocking disarray. I knew she had been imprisoned for one reason or another, but murder? How was I supposed to react to that? The picture painted of Dolly had previously been aloof, but never ruthless and malicious enough to kill in cold blood. My body froze, thinking about it. I had been interacting with a murderer. I’d shaken the same hand that had taken someone’s life. The sin, the blood on that hand…was on mine. It would always be. An icy question entered my mind. How many other killers had I met? How many others had I touched?
Dolly continued talking as if she hadn’t just admitted to one of the worst crimes a person could commit.
“Why are you so surprised? This is juvie; there are murderers everywhere.” She scoffed, “not all of us can be like you, Mister ‘Unjustly Imprisoned’.”
The room went quiet for what seemed like an eternity. Then, Dolly disingenuously laughed.
“I can only imagine what you’re thinking right now. You’re judging me, aren’t you?” She pressed a finger to the ground, “it’s interesting to know that even a trashy degenerate like you has the gull to judge.”
I stayed silent. On the contrary, Dolly raised her voice.
“I don’t care! Judge all you want! I’m never going to regret it!”
I managed to croak out one word.
“…Why?”
“He was a swine.” She sighed, “at the end of the day, it was either me or him. I couldn’t let him take my life away.”
Her words slapped the image of a heartless killer out of my head. She seemed uncharacteristically sincere. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I recognized that mindset, so I understood her choice was out of desperation. She had no other option. Yeah, that was undoubtedly familiar. Before I could say anything, she looked me dead in the eyes with unyielding intensity. “It’s a hard mindset to have, but it’s how things must be. If this clown has really been at your throat, it’s your life or his. If you’re not man enough to handle that burden, I’ll handle it for you.”
“No, there’s not gonna be any of that. I don’t care what you say or what you’ve done; I’m not letting you do any dirty work for me.” I shook my stressed head, “call it cowardly, but since he’s recovering his strength at such a sturdy pace, I’ll just get Trotsky to do it. This was his idea in the first place. I don’t care if it makes me a bitch. It’s the best choice for everyone. He’d be able to execute a murder better than me anyway.”
“Well then, if that’s the decision you’re making, good luck dealing with that loon.”
I switched the topic of our austere conversation.
“Hey, Dolly?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
She scowled. “What is there to be sorry about?”
“I’m sorry the world’s been so cold that you’re willing to murder someone for posing a threat. No girl your age or stature should be in that kill or be killed mentality, and it’s honestly heartbreaking that you are.”
She paused for a second. “…I don’t need your sympathy.”
“Okay, whatever you say. Look, just…treat yourself kindly, okay? Sometimes it’s alright just to take a moment and breathe. We both wanna get to the bottom of the weird shit going on here, but at the same time, you need to find a good balance between acceptance and striving.” I hunched my back in an attempt to get on her level, “can you do that for me?”
“If it’ll get you to stop pestering me about this, then sure.” I took that as a hesitant yet hopeful yes. “If I play my cards right, you should be able to sneak into the theatre room and meet the intel guy tomorrow during free time.”
“Of course. Everything happens during free time.”
She gave me a disinterested “mhm” before standing up and leaving the cell. It seemed as though she was thinking about something. As her hand lingered on the bars, I called out her nickname once more.
“Dolly?”
“What is it now?”
“Thank you so much for helping me with this. It’s nice of you. You know ‘everything,’ so you should know that despite all that’s happened in your past, you’re a brave girl.”
…
“You’re welcome, and, uh, thanks. I don’t really know what for, but thanks.”
I found myself glad she didn’t leave the first time the cell went silent.
That night, I discussed my plans with Trotsky. Initially, he gave me an irate frown before dubiously letting me explain myself. I would do all the planning. I would gather all the information, track the clown down, set the stage, and prep up the pins so he could knock them down. That was all he needed to do; Knock. Them. Down. I knew how much Trotsky loved some shameless praise, so I even went on a small spiel about his strength and how much better he would be at taking Bozo down. Then I cast my vocal hook.
“Besides, you’re the one that wants him dead. I mean, he took advantage of you. He used you, humiliated you. He tried to kill you first. Why should you stand from the sidelines and have someone else murder him? Wouldn’t it be so much sweeter if you were the one to claim his life?”
He eagerly agreed to go along with my plan after that.
Everything fell into place real nicely. Sure, I would have to do quite a bit of work, but at least someone’s blood wouldn’t be on my hands. All I had to do was gather some information on Bozo and stalk him down. There was an inherent challenge and a plethora of undoubtedly disturbing undertones to that, but I had to go through with it. The clown had tormented too many people, and Trotsky’s vague threats were too daunting.
The following day would make my task much more manageable.
That day went by fast, and before I knew it, I was sneaking down a vacant hallway. This place’s unevenly distributed security staff made snooping around relatively easy for me, and I was pleasantly greeted by an unlocked door to the theatre room.
The room had a slight ominous aura. Velvety crimson curtains covered the large widescreen, and any wooden surface was coated with layer upon layer of dust. You could hear the rats squeaking in the dimmed lights, singing their miserable songs. Everything had such a dreary shade, festering from the vacancy. The sad sea of unstable, empty chairs didn’t help the dull image in front of me, either. It was depressing and undeniably dreadful.
But not all of the seats were empty.
If I squinted my eyes, I could see something that made my heart race.