Ex-prisoners, who’s the most memorable cellmate you’ve ever had

THE BRANDED PREDATOR

My cellmate was branded a child predator and tormented daily by inmates and guards. Then he revealed the soul crushing truth about why he actually called his own kid.

And I’ve never felt more conflicted. I was serving the second year of my three-year sentence when this bald guy with a mustache named Peter arrived as my new cellmate.

The guard leading him kicked him in the back before closing our cell. Then from behind bars sarcastically told me not to mention my kids around this freak.

I instantly jumped up. My own child had been assaulted.

So, I approached Peter and asked him bluntly to tell me what he did to those kids. But Peter didn’t say anything.

Instead, he just looked at me with these eyes that I’d only ever seen in wrongfully convicted prisoners. I ended up letting go of him.

But because of how suspicious I was, I started watching him carefully.

And what I saw was basically what I expected. You see, it’s no secret that predators aren’t exactly treated well in prison.

And that was the case for Peter. During his first breakfast, someone poured scalding coffee over his hands.

That same day in yard, this guy named Bookie stabbed him in the side with a screw. Later that night in our cell, I saw him peeing blood from all the injuries.

The guards were basically even worse. I remember one of the times Peter put in an application to go to medical with a broken rib after falling and just never heard back.

Another time I witnessed a guard enter our cell at night just to wail on Peter. He was even outright stabbed in the shoulder with a glass shard by one of the pigs.

But the strangest thing was despite everything, Peter was the nicest guy I’d ever met. He shared his pain meds with me when medical refused to see me.

He fixed the broken wheelchair of the vet who lost his legs. And when one of the new guys got word that his daughter died, Peter held him in the way only a father who’d buried his own child could.

Everything changed the day I was in the laundry room by myself. I had just finished saving up $800 to buy my daughter the college textbook she needed and was planning on how to convince her mother to spend it on that instead of dod drugs.

That’s when Bookie, who was an ex-human trafficker serving life, cornered me with one of his people. He said he’d heard from one of the guards that I had money in my account and unless I give it over, I could kiss my daughter goodbye.

He then pressed a tiny blade against my neck and told me I had 10 seconds to make my choice.

I remember swallowing dryly, my mind racing for some sort of way to get out of this. Listen, Bookie, we can ah my words were interrupted by Bookie’s henchman screaming.

Bookie instantly turned around where he was met with Peter pressing a sizzling hot iron into the other guy’s back. Bookie’s face went white and when Peter locked eyes with him, he didn’t hesitate.

He lunged at Bookie with the iron, too, pressing it into his cheek, leading to Bookie dropping on the floor as well. Both of them were screaming in agony, and me and Peter just scrambled to get out of the laundry room.

That night, in our cells, Peter told me he’d heard what Bookie said to me. He said that he once had a daughter, too, and added that anyone who comes between a father and their daughter needs to be punished.

Unfortunately, standing up to Bookie meant problems for Peter. The very next day, he was taken out by one of the guards and brought to the warden.

I don’t know what happened there or why, but Peter was placed in solitary confinement for the next 30 days. When he returned, he was a shell of his former self.

He had new bruises, as if someone was somehow able to get near him. He’d lost so much weight, he was literally anorexic, and when I asked a guard what happened to him, I was told to mind my business unless I want the same treatment.

The thing was, Bookie was out of the infirmary by this point, meaning it would likely only get worse for Peter. 4 days passed before it happened.

I was cornered by a guard while waiting for Peter to be done in the showers, who told me that for my own good, I should head back to my cell.

At first, I told him no, I was waiting for Peter. But then the guard just looked at me.

He pulled out a photo of my daughter and asked if I was sure I wanted to wait for Peter. The implication was clear.

I knew what was about to happen, and I felt terrible leaving Peter behind. But if it came down to him or my daughter, the choice was obvious.

I remember just grinding my teeth in frustration before turning around and walking out. I heard the sound of someone getting punched basically instantly.

That sound was then followed by muffled screaming and then that same sizzling sound I’d heard before. I felt myself start to tear up.

Peter only came back to our cell a few hours later. By that point, he had already been discharged from the infirmary.

He had sustained four broken ribs, a broken nose, thirdderee burns on his back and torso. Two of his teeth had even been pulled out.

Yet, from what he said, medical barely looked at him. They refused to give him pain meds, refused to let him spend the night there.

Didn’t even stitch him up, just wrapped his injuries in bandages that were already seeping through and walked him back.

Once our cell door closed, he couldn’t even make it to his bunk. He just collapsed on the floor, not even moving, making these wounded animal sounds.

I got down and knelt beside him. I told him I was sorry that I wanted to help, but they threatened my daughter.

Peter didn’t even get mad when I told him. He said I made the right choice.

He told me he would have chosen his daughter over me, too.