126

The Block is a different kind of hell. It was built in a very particular way. It was a square  building on the outside, grey, nondescript, but stood out against the dry, arid landscape. However, the prison appeared circular on the inside. Within the prison itself, cells stack on top of each other, spanning more floors than I ever cared to count. For every two floors there was a ring, and within this ring were supposedly guards. We could never really tell if we were being watched, we always figured we were, but no one cared to check. Each floor had 25 cells and a work room.

There were rumors that when The Block was first created that actual human guards roamed the place. They were meant to watch us work, but we hadn’t seen anyone for what seemed like years. A couple of the inmates kept calendars, but they were very unofficial, the only passage of time that we could verify is when the facility’s lights went on and off. We never really saw anyone except for each other.

Every morning started with coffee, they wanted us to be productive. Bitter, dark, unappealing to everyone, but it's what was expected of them. No one knew why it always started with coffee, when we were children they always told us that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, but no one really subscribed to that idea anymore. There were too many things to worry about and breakfast never really fell into that category. The coffee maker slowly whined to life in all of our cells. It was a macabre ritual every morning. The coffee maker was our alarm, signaling the start to our day. It always started and ended the same. Coffee, work, mealtime, work, sleep. No one ever cared about leaving, there was no point, our quota always kept our mind shackled to the task at hand. The time between the coffee being brewed and when our cells opened was really the only quiet time we had. Ten minutes where everyone drank their coffee in silence. There was no need to talk, it was the only flavor we were ever really allowed to savor, but it never got easier to stomach.

The smelling was the most appealing thing about the drink. The mug was finally full. As I took the mug I looked into it, studying my reflection. I saw my peppered hair, more gray than black, I had lost track of my age, but I was certainly showing it. As I had been imprisoned, my wrinkles had only grown. The only difference between myself and the others was my face. We all had the same suit, cell, mug, bunk. The others drank their coffee quickly, big gulps, but I couldn’t do it this morning. I looked at the coffee, slowly sipping it. I grimaced at the flavor, it never got easier. I never found drinking it enjoyable or easy, but I always did. But what if I didn’t? What if I dumped it?

There was a small curtain separating the small receptacle from the rest of the prison, I could dump it easily enough. Without trying to draw suspicion to myself, I slowly walked to the toilet, my heart pounding in my ears and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back. I had never thought to do this before. The act was done in less than a minute. I poured the coffee in, flushed, and left. It shouldn’t have been so rewarding but it was. The fear turned to adrenaline, it made me feel like the person I used to be, before I was put to work.

The cell gates buzzed open and everyone shuffled out of their cells. Everyone stepped out simultaneously, marking the beginning of the work day. We marched in clockwise rotation until we hit the break in the cells where the work room was, on the northern end of the ring. The work room matched the rest of the prison. A cubic room with grey walls. The only thing that ever stood out was the machinery scattered about. There were five rows, each with five machines. I was always on press duty. On one side of the room were a series of pneumatic tubes in which we received hunks of metal.

The First was tasked with retrieving the chunk and checking for abnormalities. The Second was tasked with heating it so it could be pressed. The Third was tasked with pressing it into sheets. The Fourth was tasked with joining the pressed metal. The Fifth was tasked with filling in roles. They were typically the oldest, the most experienced. A coveted position, they rarely had to work as no one ever really bothered to stop working. It was always expected of them, and it was the only thing keeping us busy. However, none of these roles have changed on our floor. They remained the same throughout the time that I had been here.

“You don’t smell like coffee.”

I looked up from my work, trying to verify who was talking to me.

“What?” I asked puzzled, I could feel my heartbeat flutter against my ribcage. The one day I broke the schedule just had to be the day our Fourth actually paid attention to anything but his work. Our Fourth was not a very interesting man. He was about 5’ 10,” not much larger than any other individual within the prison. He was presumably of average weight and had dark eyes to match his hair. He did as he was told. Again, he was not very noteworthy.

“You don’t smell like coffee,” repeated the Fourth. 

“Every morning we wake up, the pot fills, and we drink. Every morning everyone does the same thing, but this morning you don’t smell like coffee.”

The Fifth yelled at us to get back to work, but our Fourth kept eyeing me throughout the shift. He wouldn’t let it go. 

The next morning was the same. I dumped my coffee as quickly as possible, heading off to work the press. I had a splitting headache that I hadn’t been able to get rid of. Everyone gave their normal greetings, exchanging small talk before the first batch of metal arrived. This day, as the rest before, was normal. Our Fourth didn’t speak to me, we all worked without speaking, and everything went as smoothly as expected for the majority of the shift.

As time went on, we fell into a normal schedule. We each dumped our coffee, went to work, drank the flavorless tube sludge, went back to work, and slept. We gradually began to talk more and more. He was very observant, noticing small details, shifts in mood. He was also funny, humor wasn’t really present within the prison, but he did well to raise my mood. Our shifts became bearable, enjoyable even. It felt like home. We even started to theorize about the coffee. We both had noticed headaches the first few days, which we both attributed to caffeine withdrawal, but there was something else too. We felt more alert, more present, more human. We kept each other anchored within our own reality. 

“I remember going to school, I had always enjoyed writing,” I mentioned to our Fourth during one of our shifts.

“At least you remember something, all I can remember is a blur. I never cared for school. I was always fidgety, but I remember that I liked working with my hands.” 

“I remember rain, the sweet smell as it hit the earth. Our teacher said that wet earth was called ‘petrichor’ but it sounded too fancy for such a smell.”

“I remember that too.”

I stopped working momentarily, halting the press before it started again. I looked our Fourth in the eyes, smiling as we reminisced about the outside. His eyes started to well with tears as we both escaped into our own little world.

I had been keeping track of the days since we had met, it had been three weeks. On one of the walks to the work room, he caught up with me, walking at my side. A slow, warm, smile spread across my face. We mentioned how we had both noticed some of them had stopped caring. One of the men in the third row had crushed his finger in a press, but he didn’t react, he didn’t acknowledge the pain. This work had killed them, they were nothing more than machines. We whispered about how that used to be us. How we used to be nothing more than what they were, but now we weren’t.

We had found each other. Our days were so much more bearable. It was nice to have someone to talk to, to finally have a piece of our humanity back. Throughout the work day I noticed my Fourth clutching his chest, clearly in pain. It’s worrying to see, but whenever I brought it up he waved it off, saying that he had experienced this for years. He wasn’t the only observant one. He had started to whisper under his breath the past few shifts, complaining about nausea and fatigue, something that should have subsided by now if it was caffeine withdrawal. Unease creeped through me as I considered what could be happening to my Fourth. 

As I lay tossing and turning, thinking of my Fourth, I heard something strange. I heard gasps and struggled breathing. No one else on our floor seemed to notice, but it came from the general direction of my Fourth. I couldn’t do anything. I was stuck in this cell. I wouldn’t be able to check on him until the morning. I stayed awake for hours, never drifting off, worried that something had happened to my Fourth. The only company I had was the low buzzing of the Block.

It has been three days since his death. The coffee, once an enjoyable smell, now mixed with death. It was nauseating. It clung to our clothing, following us into the work room. I hadn’t been able to see his cell, his body, anything. So, I had to go about my job as I normally would, but I felt hollow. He was no longer there to keep me company, it was just our Fifth. I was consumed by the cacophony of the workroom until our Fifth spoke up.

“Hydrogen sulfide, cadaverine, dimethyl sulfide, and ammonia,” our Fifth said to me, never looking up from his work. “That’s what the smell is.”

“I don’t care you soulless bastard. I have never once talked to you, what makes you think that I would ever want to,” I snapped at him. “You treat him like a science experiment, like roadkill, he was a person and all you can think about is what chemicals he’s turning into,” I said in an angry whisper. 

“I was a mortician before I was put here, I thought you would want to know what was happening with his body,” aiming to explain his macabre knowledge. “Don’t worry though, eventually you’ll get used to the smell.”

“Where the fuck does this guy get off,” I think to myself, seething. I lunge at the Fifth, grabbing his hand. I clearly outweighed him by about 30 pounds, I was about 20 years younger, and several inches taller. He did not fight back. I dragged him over to the press in a blind rage, watching as the hammer swung. I lugged his arm into place while still keeping him restrained. He pleaded with me, asking me not to, but there was no stopping this. I placed his hand onto the  archaic machine press and pulled the familiar lever like I had done thousands of times. The hammer crashed down. It slowly warped his hand, trying to overcome the resistance that his hand presented. There was a sharp, wet crack as his hand succumbed to the pressure. His fingers burst sideways and his skin split, no longer recognizable. The hammer hit the awaiting plate, completing its press cycle as it had done so many times before, just as mechanical and somber as the workers who manned it. The work bell chimed, telling us to leave for the day. I left the Fifth there, whimpering as he cradled his hand to his chest. People shuffled out, paying him no mind. Our Fifth was no longer a machine, but a hurt animal, waiting to die.

As we shuffled back into the cells, I broke off from the group, bolting towards my Fourth’s cell. The smell had gotten worse as I got closer and closer. It smelled like sulfur, but also of sweet decay. I gagged as I moved towards the cell, with his body finally coming into view. It was bloated, discoloured, green. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes glassy. The man that I had called my friend, now a corpse. The coffee maker had not stopped since his death. He laid in a mixture of his own bodily fluid and coffee. The scene was nauseating, forcing me out of the cell, I couldn’t stomach it any longer. I fled back to my cell, no longer wanting to bathe in this stench. 

The night was once again filled with little sleep, as the lights turned on and the coffee maker hummed to life, all I could think about was my Fourth laying there. Everytime I closed my eyes I could see him there, as though it was imprinted on the back of my eyelids. I took the coffee cup, once again studying my reflection. I could very clearly see dark circles under my eyes, like two raised parasites. I thought about the coffee, the dark, burnt flavor haunting me, but it could make me normal again, I could go back to the person I was before I had dumped it, calm, uncaring, mechanic. I could so easily slip back into the false reality that was this prison. Was my humanity worth the emotional toll that it had brought? Without the coffee, I could feel again, but what if I didn’t want to? I had crushed our Fifth’s hand without the coffee, but I didn’t want to stop feeling, I wanted to still feel him. The sickly sweet scent of his decay snapped me back to reality. It still followed us everywhere.

The coffee maker shut itself off, the whirring no longer present. It sounded tired, broken, unwilling to do its job, but forced to everyday. I stared into the mug once again, the only thing separating me from them was my face. I couldn’t keep doing this.

Everyday is the same, the coffee, the press, the eyes, the order, his decay. There would never be an end, we would lose our meaning, our spark, slaving away at those stations until we withered away. There was no point. I waited for the same trill buzzing to release us. I took my mug, stared into it one last time, memorizing my own tired eyes. I hurled the mug at the surveillance ring, the shattering of the mug in sharp contrast to the cadence of the work march. The hot liquid slowly poured down the concrete rings. I walked out of my cell, raised myself over the guard rail, and hurled myself over. I was finally ready to leave the 126th floor.