Burnt Skin n’ What Not


It didn’t take long for the whole joint to know that I was a mother fuck’n bad ass. After a week or two of putting up with the fudge packers and the girlie guys I’d had enough to last a life time. Protection in maximum security was not given to the guys who kneel down and take it, I’d learned that the hard way.

Using my newly acquired skills as a pretty boy, I persuaded a guard to leave me and the rest of the crew alone in the boiler room, where we were working on some electrical stuff, free convict labor ‘n all. Once we were alone, I grabbed the guy who thought I was his very own prick receiver and made him regret every single incident he’d had me on my knees. I took down his pants and pressed his junk up against the boiler where them pipes are bursting hot.

It was one of the sweetest pleasures I’d ever known, listen’n to his screams and cries. The smell of burning hair and flesh lingered in the room and hallway for at least a week. Every once in a while I swear I can still smell it lingering. Last I heard he was shipped out to the state hospital with third degree burns and some kinda infection. I feel real good about that.

You’d have thunk all the rest of the boys would rush to help him, but they all stepped back and watched in awe as I pressed his flesh into the hot metal. A wide look of admiration and sick horror spread across their faces. I suspect they were thankful I didn’t turn on them. It did take four guards to pull me off ‘em.  A fact I’m a bit proud of.  And now I’ve earned a nice ‘n high place in the peck’n order. No one’s go’n to mess with me any more, that’s for damn sure.

Not that they can, I’m in a coffin now. I’m supposed to be allowed a little sun light every single day. I’m also promised edible food, but the slop they serve me even the rats won’t eat.

What I didn’t expect when I was arrested was that they’d look into my life with a fine tooth comb. Shit, things have come to light now, things that I‘d rather have kept hidden. Mamma is squawk’n like a canary ‘bout all the things she thinks I did when I was young n’ all. Guess she thinks that now that I’m in Max. she should be safe. Maybe she is safe right now. But that could change.

There seems to be a goddamned new discovery every freak’n day—my stupid ass public defender warns don’t look good for me at all. He says I could be go n’ away for a long time. No shit Sherlock. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that when they find your keepsakes from all the dead and gone prey that you’ve played with over the years, you’re officially shit outta luck. I’m just hope’n they don’t find the bodies.

The only person who is allowed to see me is my attorney and he looks like a spit’n image of them guys in the movie Nerds. He rambles and rambles in a proper type english voice that reminds me of The Great Gazoo from the Flintstones. For the first time I’ve been wondering why I never chose men for my prey. In my spare time— have a lot of spare time—I come up with ways I can make that voice beg and cry. But for now I’m just smiling and behave’n like a good boy. No need to give him any reason to be scared of me. I am relying on him to  find some loop hole to get me off after all.

Unfortunately every piece of evidence that gets found digs me deeper and deeper in to a whole. And the trial that’s coming up will be the last nail in the coffin. It seems like I’ll be shut up for good. That’s when the only thing I’ll have for company are my memories and dreams.

~ fin ~

A sweet doll-face by day, a twisted mind by night—Brookelynn Berry is a serious writer with a mighty dark side or an extraordinarily sexy one, depending on the day. Her work appears in all the usual places, including Twisted Sister lit mag–and some of her work appears in all those places you don’t want to know about. You can check Brookelynn out at https://brookelynnberry.wordpress.com/