The chill starts at the base of my skull and scurries down my spine. “What?”
“How did it feel, David?” His eyes are ablaze. “I am talking on a purely intellectual level. A proper discussion between educated men. I consider myself a student of the human condition. So I want to know. Be analytical or emotional, that’s up to you. But when you lifted that baseball bat above your head and smashed it down on your own child’s skull, what went through your mind? Was it a release? I mean, did you feel you had to do it? Or were you trying to quiet voices in your head? Or was the feeling more euphoric—”
“Go fuck yourself, Ross.”
Sumner frowned. “Go fuck myself? Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with? Really, David, I’m disappointed. I came here for a serious philosophical discussion. We know things others don’t. I want to understand what could possess a man to do something so barbaric. To kill his own son. The flesh of your own flesh. I know that might make me sound like a hypocrite—”
“Lunatic,” I correct.
“—but you see, I kill strangers. Strangers are life’s props, don’t you think? Stage dressing. Deep background for our worlds—the inner world we create. We are all that matter in the end, don’t you think? Think about it. We cry harder when a beloved pet dies than when a tsunami kills hundreds of thousands of humans. Do you see my point?”
I see no reason to open my mouth. That will just encourage him.
Ross Sumner leans toward me. “I killed strangers. Props. Scenery. Window dressing. But to kill your own child, your own flesh and blood…”
He shakes his head as though mystified. I seethe but stay silent. What’s the point? I don’t need to win favor with this psychopath. I look for another seat, but it isn’t as though another table companion would be less disturbing.
Ross Sumner daintily unfolds his paper napkin and lays it on his lap. He takes a tiny bite of the eggs and makes a face. “This food is simply awful,” he says. “Absolutely tasteless.”
I can’t help myself. “As opposed to, say, human intestines?”
Sumner stares at me for a moment. I stare back. You never show fear in here. Not ever. Not for a second. It is, in part, why I made the wisecrack in the first place. Much as you might want to wallow in silence, you can never take shit in here because the shit will just grow exponentially.
Ross Sumner keeps up the eye contact for another second or two before throwing his head back and bursting out in laughter. Everyone turns toward us.
“Now that,” he exclaims when he catches his breath, “was funny! No, really, David, that’s what I was talking about. That’s why I sat here. For that kind of give-n-take. For that kind of mental stimulation. Thank you. Thank you, David.”
I don’t reply.
He is still laughing as he rises and says, “I’m going to grab some toast. May I get you something while I’m up?”
“I’m good.”
I close my eyes for a moment and rub my temples. A headache is crashing through me like a freight train. They started after that first beating, the remnants of a concussion and cracked skull. The prison doctor called them “cluster” headaches. I am still massaging my temples, stupidly letting my guard down, when an arm snakes around my neck. Before I can react, the arm snaps back hard, crushing my windpipe. My throat feels as though it’s about to spurt out the back of my neck. My eyes bulge, my hand clawing impotently at his forearm.
Ross Sumner tightens his grip. He pulls back harder now. My legs shoot up, my shins smacking the table. The utensils jump. I start falling backward. Sumner releases his iron grip as the back of my head slams against the floor.
I see stars.
I blink. When I look up, Ross Sumner is leaping high in the air. That boyish grin is way north of maniacal now. I try to roll away. I try to raise my hands to ward him off. But I’m too late. Ross lands on me with his full weight, both knees pulverizing my rib cage.
I see more stars now.
I try to call out, try to scramble away, but Sumner straddles me. I wait for him to start throwing punches, wondering what I can do to stop him. But that’s not what he does. Instead, he opens his mouth wide and lowers his head toward my chest.
Even through my prison jumpsuit, the bite breaks my skin.
I howl. Ross sinks his teeth deeper into the fleshy area right below my nipple. The pain is excruciating. The other inmates quickly surround us and lock arms, a fairly common prison technique to keep the guards away. But somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I know that no guards will step in. Not yet anyway. Not until one of us is unconscious. It’s safer for them. Guards don’t like risking injury.
I am on my own.
Still on my back, his teeth drawing blood, I draw on whatever reserves are left in my empty tank. I lift my hands up, palms facing each other, and with all my limited strength, I box Ross Sumner’s ears. The blows do not land flush, but Sumner’s jaw still unclenches. That’s all I could have hoped for. I roll hard, trying to get him off me. He goes with my momentum. When his feet hit the ground, he pounces on my back. He threads the arm back around my windpipe.
His grip tightens.
I can’t get air.
I twist back and forth. Ross holds on. I try to buck and flail. Ross’s grip does not slacken. Pressure is building in my head. My lungs are crying out for air. The stars are back, swirling, but what I mostly see now is night. I struggle for one breath, just one, but that’s a no-go.
I can’t breathe.
My eyes start to close. My fellow inmates’ cheers are one indistinct blur. Ross Sumner lowers his head closer to me.
“That ear looks tasty.”
He is about to bite down on my ear. I barely care. I try again to buck, but there is nothing behind it. All I can think about is being able to breathe. Just one breath. That’s all. His lips are right up against my ear now. I struggle like a dying fish on the line.
Where the hell are the guards?
By now, they should be stepping in. They don’t want a dead inmate. That’s not good for anyone. But then I remember Ross Sumner’s wealth, his family’s proclivity for payoffs, and again I realize that no one is going to save me.
If I lose consciousness—and I’m about to—I die.
And if I die, where would that leave Matthew?
Seconds now from passing out, capillaries bursting in my closed eyes, I lower my chin and let myself go limp. This isn’t easy. It goes against every instinct. But I pull it off. There is only one thing left to do. Fight fire with fire.
I open my mouth and bite down on Ross Sumner’s arm.
Hard.
His cry of pain is the most satisfying sound I have heard in a long time.
The grip on my windpipe immediately eases as he tries to pull his arm away. I greedily gulp air through flaring lips. But my teeth don’t let go. He screams again. My jaw clenches down even stronger. He shakes his arm. I hang on like a bulldog. I feel the hairs of his arm against my face. I bite down even harder.
His blood trickles into my mouth. I don’t care.
Ross has managed to stand. I am on my knees. He throws a punch. I think it hits the top of my head, but I don’t feel it. He tries to gather enough leverage to pull his arm free, but I’m ready. The crowd is on my side now. I throw an elbow at his groin. Ross Sumner collapses like a folding chair. His weight tears his arm free from my teeth, but some flesh stays behind.