Free Charlie's Requiem Novella by A. American Page A

ceiling to occupy his time and take his mind off of his building stress. Soon, his skin settled down and he started to feel the tightness in his chest abate.
    “Hey boy,” he heard. “Whatcha in for?” One of the others asked.
    The young man barely heard the question, continuing his ritualistic ceiling tile counting, not wanting to have to start over if he lost his concentration. The others continued their murmuring and then it got quiet. The boy had just finished counting the third row of tiles when he felt a jolt to his left shoulder. Someone had hit him in one of the burn marks and he let out a yelp. Standing in front of him was a tall, lanky man who desperately needed a shave and shower. His teeth, the few he had left, were covered in a plaque of yellow and brown crust that seemed to be holding them together, each of his lower front teeth tilting at an impossible angle. The man didn’t look much past 40 years old, but his skin and teeth told a story of a very hard life. The tattoos on his upper body bled out of the neck-line of his t-shirt, hinting of a well inked torso beneath. His head had been shaved bald. If he had been a woman, he would have been described as ridden hard and put away wet . As it was, he didn’t like the kid ignoring him and the punch to his shoulder brought the boy back to reality.
    The man looked back at the others, searching for approval. He turned his attention back to the boy and glared at the youth, sizing him up like a lion would do to a gazelle.
    “I said,” he hissed. “What are you doing in here?”
    The boy, well beyond caring, simply shrugged and continued to rub the burn that had just been punched.
    “Are you stupid?” The man continued. “What are you doing in here?”
    The boy started at his tormentor, watching as the man constantly glanced back over his shoulder at the others. That’s when he noticed the other man. Also shaved bald, this one had an air about him that reeked of authority. This one stared back at him, his eyes boring through the boy’s gaze leaving no doubt who was in charge.
    “Come on, punk!” The man in front of him said as he clenched his fist for another strike. “We want to know what a white bread kid like you is doin’ in the cell with us! Now TALK! What are you charged with?”
    The young man relented. He looked down at the floor and whispered to the man.
    “Murder,” he said in a low voice.
    “Murder my ass!” The man chortled. “You ain’t murdered no one.”
    The boy continued to stare at the floor as the man stood his ground in front of him.
    “OK, White Bread.” He continued. “Who’d you put down? Just who did you off? Your teacher? Was she giving you bad grades? Come on! Tell me, just who did you kill? Mr. Big, Bad Man!”
    “My mom,” he whispered back.
    The verbal assault ended. His assailant stepped back and turned to the others. The leader, a big man with even more tattoos than the first one stepped forward. He moved with a grace that belied his size. As he approached, the boy could make out the tattoos with even greater detail. Several swastikas were evident as well as an Iron Cross. The number 88 was stenciled on his right cheek while the number 14 was stenciled on the left one. His blue eyes bore into the young man as he stepped up. He crouched in front of the boy and reached out, lifting his chin to stare into his eyes. The man, the leader of the group, spoke.
    “Why?”
    The boy, unsure why he should answer, simply lifted his shirt and the man and his minion stared at his scarred and burned chest.
    The leader shook his head up and down, and letting go of the boy’s chin, lifted his own shirt up, revealing the pucker marks of his own burnt and scarred torso. The leader turned to the others and pronounced “He’s one of ours now! Protect him.”
    Then he turned back to the boy. “Name’s Taurus,” he said. “You’re now protected by the Aryan Brotherhood. You’ll be safe.”
    And with that, the lights went