Incessant chatter and talking. Oh, can that girl talk! I’ve had her charged six times for that. She won’t shut up. She keeps . . . telling me that she’s not human. That she’s part . . .
Crocodile. Really, you know? Glory is eighteen, going on twelve.
She keeps referring to the swamp. It’s part of her . . .
Mentalness.
Her . . . disordered thinking. She screams at me—
“I got seventy-five teeth and I will tear you to pieces.”
She says, “I am two hundred million–years–old, Gail, how old are you?”
She has imagination, I will give her that. She says the wildest things.
But all the crazies do, you know. They can talk, right? They use words in a way I wouldn’a thought of.
And I’ll tell you something else most people don’t know.
Over half of them in here?
Are lunatics.
I mean straight-out, hearing-devil-voices, seeing-pink-elephants—
Totally crazy. And they don’t get treatment. Are you kidding me?
They see a shrink for five minutes, maybe once.
MAYBE once. And all that psychiatrist does is prescribe some worse-than-useless pill that has them drooling and shitting their pants.
’Course, this whole place would make anyone crazy, right?
Like the rules, the rules are . . .
Like. I know and every other CO knows that they will suitcase glass shards or whatever—means they store tiny pieces of glass or whatever they can up their body cavities so they can use them for makin’ whatever later and the fact is we can’t search them without their consent. And you think they’re gonna give their consent? We know as soon as we turn our heads or change shifts or whatever they could be makin’ ligatures or even knives with their toothbrushes. And there’s not a damn thing we can do.
This whole place is fucking crazy. Like the world turned upside down.