I peer through the slits of his cell.
The only thing separating my callused hands from his beefy neck are a few iron bars.
The young man is sleeping on a stiff bed of rock.
Torn, yellowed pages provide a blanket.
Their pristine covers lie neatly stacked in a corner.

His chest sighs up and down, ironically calm,
While my rapidly beating heart thrusts outwards,
Attempting to escape my body
To model the scars from his knife.
It opens and closes like my sweat covered fists.

His chin's scruff lightly scratches his bulging pectorals with each casual breath.
The last five years have transformed his body.
All baby fat has fled his cheeks,
And thick jawbones now shape his face.
These changes illuminate once hidden dangers-
My mother would not have let a man like this stay the night.
Now his secret evils seem plastered upon his body.
As I look at this pile of meat, however,
I don't see a felon.
I see the thirteen-year old boy I knew.

His round glasses magnified two bright eyes that always seemed to laugh-
Sometimes at me,
But mostly at the world around us.

The scent of stale pages brings me back to when we organized my makeshift library.
Precisely sorting each novel by author and genre,
We took our time.

As we worked, we not only whistled but sang.
We sang of the small beauties of life-
Like our chubby math teacher's accent
And the rare hugs we received from our well-endowed friend.
He particularly seemed enthused with by the latter-
But he was a teenage boy after all.

I sorted the mystery and suspense
While he riffled through comedies and romance.
Much like our friendship, we only focused on the covers.
The secrets remained bound deep within.
I could never have guessed the twisted plots that lay in the pages
Written by those sparkling eyes.

As a final tear falls from my clouded eyes,
My mind clears.
With a silent sigh,
Without a word,
I turn from the putrid pages.

I walk out of the dark corridor of cells
And into the blinding light of a new day.