The sound of two dozen men shouting morphed into a cacophonous soundtrack as I did my work.

The rage had taken over as easily as a wet bar of soap slips from your hand in the shower.

I had dawned it like a tailored suit, warm and form fitting, and made just for me.

With my left hand, I gripped Sullivan's neck, keeping him pressed to the

ground. I drove my right fist into his face for the fourth time, feeling his orbital collapse

under the pointy ridges of my knuckles. Sullivan, a much bigger man than me, had thought he could

spout off and I wouldn't do anything. And it was true. I had a habit of letting the anger build up inside until it burst out. He had been messing with me in the yard for weeks, poking and prodding and eliciting laughs from his Aryan nation friends. Without thinking too much about it, I had stored up his words, packing them away like precious and fragile figurines until I could smash them to bits in a fit of rage.

Now, as I straddled him and split his eyebrow open with another punch, the gathered inmates shouted, some of them with glee, others with dismay.

I felt something crack in my hand with the punch, a blade of pain traveling up my arm.

But I didn't stop.

I gritted my teeth and punched again, taking the pain.

It wouldn't be long now until the guards came to break the little fight up.

I had to make it count.

The rage guided me to pull my left hand

from his throat. My next punch went straight into his windpipe, crunching it down with

the sound like biting into a Rice Krispie's treat. Then the guards were shouting and elbowing

and pulling me off Sullivan. Jesus Christ, Moyer! One guard said. I recognized his voice.

His name was Dumas.

But all the D-block inmates called him dumbass behind his back.

What the hell did I tell you what happened if you got into another fight?

He asked, pulling me away with another guard.

You're gone, man. You're fucking gone now.

...