Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“Here I am, Sandra. Cut me. I have all the evidence. She knows nothing. If you kill me, then all of this will be over. Cut me, Sandy.”

“I will,” she said as she stood up. “I’ll cut you bad. I’ll cut you good. So good. But it won’t bring Tony back, will it? WILL IT?” she screamed.

“Miss. Sandy, you okay?” Allen Jones asked as he stepped into the infirmary.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said as he walked over towards her and stood between us. Her knight in shining armor. He quickly glanced at Anna, but made neither expression or comment.

She looked back at me. “I was on vacation, out of town, when my Tony was killed. I didn’t do it. I loved him. I couldn’t kill him. I want him back.”

I thought about what she said. She was right. She couldn’t have killed him. I glanced at Anna, the blood still oozing out of her precious neck.

God, help me save her. Don’t let her die.

I decided to go in a different direction to see what would happen. “That’s what killed him,” I said. “Your love for him got him killed by someone who loves you.”

“What? Who?” she asked, shocked that someone would kill her Tony because of her.

“Him,” I said and gestured with my head toward Allen Jones.

The moment of truth was upon us. It hung in the air like a bad smell. I saw the look of revelation and realization on her face. I pressed on.

“He was watching that night,” I said. “He can be seen just behind Skipper watching what they did to you on the video. So he decided to kill them, but you beat him to the punch on Johnson, so he waits for his chance to get Thomas. When you were away, his wife got him out of confinement by her accusations against me, and it got him killed. Her, too.”

Jones looked away from me and back toward her. She looked at him with pure contempt.

She said, “I loved him, not you. I loved him, and you killed him. You stole him from me.” She started toward him on the offensive. When she reached him, she slapped him hard across the face. He didn’t flinch. “You dumb nigger, you took him from me. I loved him. I didn’t love you. I DON’T LOVE YOU,” she yelled even louder.

Strickland swiped at Jones’s face with the scalpel, slicing his cheek open about three inches. As the blood began pouring out of his cut, it spilled onto the ground and mixed with Anna’s blood, his blood defiling hers.

And then it happened. Jones brought both of his arms up in one quick motion, wrapped his hands around her neck, and snapped it like a twig. Her body went limp, her head fell unnaturally to the side, and when he let go of her, she crumpled onto the floor as if all her bones had been removed. Jones spun around and ran straight for me.

Not so long ago, I had made a vow not to injure another person ever again as long as I lived. But, what I did, I did out of instinct and training, not pledges or promises. It was strictly action and reaction, nothing more. And it was more in hopes of saving Anna, who lay unconscious now, than defending me.

Just before he reached me, I snapped out a hard right jab square on his nose. It stunned him, and blood started to pour out of it, but he was not about to stop. He came again, this time ducking his head down and tackling me like a football player. I was still sore from my last beating and I felt it everywhere as I hit the floor. He sat back onto my chest now, brought his left hand down hard on my chin.

I brought my midsection up, rocked forward, then back, and brought my legs up and wrapped them around his neck. I jerked them back down again hard, and he went down with them.

I jumped to my feet and looked around. There was still no one in sight. Anna’s entire bed, once white, was now crimson. She was dying. I ran over to the door. It was closed, which meant it was locked- it locks from the outside. Normally, just inmates were in here.

I turned around to see Jones getting to his feet and reaching into his back pocket. In another moment he produced from his back pocket a surgical knife similar to the one he had used to kill Thomas.

“You get my letters, fucker?” he hissed at me.

“Yeah, but you just killed the woman those letters were meant to protect,” I said in a voice that said, You’re not only a psychopath; you’re an idiot, too.

“Well, think about this,” he said. “When I finish with you, she’s mine.” He slung his head toward Anna.

“You won’t touch her,” I said, rage pouring out through my tone more than my words. “I won’t let you touch her. IT’S OVER!” I yelled.

He rushed me again. I braced myself for impact and crouched in a defensive stance with my knees bent slightly and my arms up. About halfway to me, his feet flew up into the air and he came crashing down to the floor in a hard thud. He had slipped on Anna’s blood. Her blood saved my life.

He got to his feet again, though, his face registering the stunned feeling he was experiencing. He rushed me again, only slower this time. Just before he reached me, he stopped, his eyes focusing on something behind me.

I spun around to see Merrill Monroe, my friend.

Merrill pushed open the door and stood with an officer’s baton ready to do battle against the forces of darkness.

“Come on, nigga’,” Merrill said in his don’t-fuck-with-me voice as he stepped in front of me. “Let’s get it on.”

Jones’s eyes widened, and just before he started his run towards Merrill, he looked like a rabid dog I had once seen. He ran towards Merrill with his knife in his right hand, extended up and pointing towards Merrill’s heart, unaware that Merrill didn’t have one when he was in these situations. Merrill seemed to wait until it was too late. Jones was right on him before he brought the baton down on his head furiously. Jones stopped, bent down, and dropped the knife. Blood continued to pour from his nose and cheek. He did not, however, fall to the ground. His mistake.

Merrill brought the baton back and down across the left side of Jones’s face. His whole head jerked back to the right, and blood and teeth spewed out in that same direction.

“Don’t fuck with my only white friend,” he yelled. And that was that.

“She cut Anna,” I said, gesturing toward Sandra Strickland as I ran over to Anna’s bed. “We’ve got to get her to a hospital, now.” Reaching down to apply pressure on her wound, I felt her long, elegant neck, her precious warm blood, which there was a lot of, and a faint pulse. I felt a pulse.

“We’re in a hospital. Let’s see if we can wake somebody up around here,” Merrill said as he dashed off to get some medical personnel to come and help save our friend’s life.

Which they did. Not, however, without laying me on a bed beside her and taking some of my blood and pumping it into her. My precious, powerful, virus-free, life-giving blood.

Perception is reality.

Like the family member who breaks out of the dysfunctional cycle, Merrill and I were viewed as troublemakers at best and traitors at worst. We had delved into the sewer, and we wreaked of it. Those investigating the matter felt that the smell of the sewer on us pointed to our guilt. Like rape victims, we were being blamed for what had happened.

The next three days were filled with interviews, inquiries, and reports with both the DOC and the FDLE. They grilled us for hours- they smelled smoke and were diligently searching for fire. Merrill and I were treated with suspicion and sarcasm. It was as if we were inmates who were suspected of committing a crime. When they finally finished with us, they said that although they couldn’t prove that we had committed crimes, they did, however, hold us responsible for Sandra Strickland’s death.