Imagine being locked in at night in this tiny cell I live in, with someone who just had major surgery a few hours earlier.

I know what its like – I pen this with blood drying on parts of me. It’s not my blood, no, it’s the blood of my celly…

Let me tell the story as I live it. My cellmate was brouhgt back to our cell on a heavy duty plastic stretcher. They began to lift him up to the top bunk, his.

“No, no no, put’em in mine, the bottom bunk” I said. That was at 10 pm, lock-down time.

I stood over him listening to him moan that prisoners moan. I assuer you, it is a struggling sound, one that one never wants to sign up for.

After a few minutes our cell door opens and a plastic garbage bag is thrown in. It is full of “post-care” medical stuff. Nothing in there that can ease this sick life though.

I got him all settled in, hoping he would sleep through the night. In the morning we would talk and see how he was doing – with an open cell door.

3am, I felt as if I was awoken by a Saint or something. I had this great thirst:getting a drink from the sink, I looked his way. Adjusting my eyes, I noticed the large pool of blood, a very large pool. I pulled his blood soaked sheet down off of him, felt for a pulse – it was there but very weak.

In every cell there is a “Panic Button” – I pushed it. No-one came for a long time. To save a life is to sacrafice, I did. I removed the saturated bandages and applied new ones – trying to stop the flow of red. For three hours I did all I could to keep him from death. I started writing this as soon as they finally showed up to take him for medical help – ha, help. 3 hours later. I will pray for him to make it.

I have paused once while writing this – only to look at the blood soaked towels, sheets, bandages, pillow, walls and floor. I’ll be cleaning all day. It is the way of the condemmed soul. The virtues I’ve learned, the to and fro’s of life. I feel so bad, only the know that I did right carries me through this. I did serve my fellow man this morning.

As the blood drys upon me I am growing tired. I am forced to sleep among the spillages of injustice. I wish I would have been writing of love, or romance: for that makes my heart soar. Instead, I sit here and write of pain and blood.

I can never turn back, never.

Always reach for your good, it is there in all, even those that have fallen – can’t you see I have been reaching, and reaching, and reaching…

This entry was posted on Monday, October 15th, 2007 at 4:12 pm and is filed under George Martorano. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.