I lost everyone. My mother, the person who was supposed to love me no matter what, disowned me. She wouldn’t even look at me in the courtroom. Finally, she stopped coming to my trial. Two years later, the warden came to my cell and informed me that she’d died from a massive heart attack. She’d died alone in our home. I wasn’t there for her.

I missed her funeral because of bad behavior. After receiving the news, I’d flipped my shit. I barely remember bashing in the head of one of the COs. The last threads of myself were pulled away that day.

My home, the one I grew up in, was sold six months later, effectively killing any memories of the boy I used to be. Christopher Jacobs died in the room with Sarah and Michael—I’d murdered him, too—slaughtered him just as I slaughtered the others. All that was left was X—an enigma that even I didn’t understand, a murderer, a dangerous, wild man without emotion or regard—a killer of all things.

That was all I was anymore, and the inmates around me thought it was a feat to conquer me. Lord knew they tried constantly, especially the newbies. They wanted to assert themselves—show dominance and earn a place in the high ranks of the prison. In their search for the top, they had to go through me. Not because I wanted them to fuck with me, but because those in the higher ranks forced it.

Their climb to the top in a place where rank was important was the reason for my visit to the infirmary. I was minding my business, locked away in my own thoughts as I collected the wash from the industrial dryer. It wasn’t that I hated working in the laundry, but it was hot and strenuous. However, it was a good workout on the days when I didn’t get yard time for a run.

I should’ve known it was too convenient that I was in the laundry alone. After being in the pen for ten years, I knew how things worked. Rarely were you ever alone, and when you were, it was because someone had paid off a CO.

Chills ran up my spine, warning me that I was no longer alone in the laundry. I sensed him behind me before I felt his fist on the back of my head.

What kind of pussy hit a man from behind?

I leaned forward from the exertion of his hit before turning around to face the coward. The room behind him filled with the familiar faces of the Mexican Mafia, one of the most dangerous gangs in the joint. They were mostly known for drug trafficking, extortion, and murder, but I’d seen it all from this particular gang. Nothing was beneath them, and they played dirty.

They were identifiable by the number thirteen that was tattooed on their cheeks—the number thirteen because it represented the thirteenth letter in the alphabet—the letter M.

Carlos Perez, their leader, stood in the middle with crossed arms and waited for me to retaliate, but I didn’t hit the coward back yet. I always gave them at least one. A freebie so to speak. He could still walk away, and I wanted to convey that with my expression.

He wasn’t familiar. He was a newbie, a dumbass trying to gain entrance into one of the most lethal gangs on the block. I fought a lot of newbies for this reason. Apparently, it took balls to find the biggest motherfucker behind bars and take him down. Luckily for me, I was that man. It gave me an excuse to rip fuckers apart whenever they were stupid enough to run up on me.

Gaining access into a gang in prison gave you a certain level of protection. For the smaller guys with no fighting skills, a gang was a smart move. You might get your ass kicked for entry, but with a band of brothers behind you, you weren’t likely to get your ass kicked again. For them, it was worth it.

Most of the gangs stuck to their own. The Mexican Mafia and La Nuestra Familia preferred Latinos. La Nuestra Familia, which was Spanish for ‘the family’, wasn’t as dangerous as the Mexican Mafia. Instead of dabbling in the hardcore stuff, they were more known for their work in sex trade. They communicated with their members on the outside, ordered hits, and organized one hell of a smuggling ring.

Not to mention that becoming a part of the Familia took years, versus a quick initiation fight into the Mafia. Ernesto Gonzalez, the leader of the Familia, required a complex initiation process where the recruit was responsible for demonstrating their potential and righteousness.

The Black Guerillas and the 803 were mostly black, although there would be the occasional white guy who thought he was a brother. They ran the right side of the yard. That crew mostly played dice and made Jump, or prison wine. They’d gather shit from the cafeteria and brew it in their cells. It was nasty as fuck, but it packed a punch.

The Black Guerilla Family, also known as the BGF, required a life pledge. Once you were in, the only way out was death. The prospective members were nominated by existing ones. They were identified by their tattoos as well, which was a dragon wound around a prison tower while holding an officer in its clutches.