Chapter Twelve: Confronting Death for the First Time

At six in the morning, we got up as usual and tidied our quarters. Everything had to be in perfect order; if the bedding wasn't folded into precise squares with sharp corners, or if the height and width didn't match the standard, we'd get docked points. Points mattered—a few lost could affect our reformation progress. Each month, we'd get two or three points, maybe three or four if we behaved well. On average, about thirty a year. Back then, forty points would get you a year's reduction; later, it changed to eighty. These points were critical.

Once our bedding was neatly stacked, we waited in line for the prisoners assigned to serve food to bring the meal buckets upstairs. Breakfast was usually steamed buns, porridge, and pickles. Sometimes, we’d add instant noodles, milk powder, oatmeal, or biscuits. After we finished eating, everyone had to assemble on the yard for roll call. But today, when they called Ren Moumou, he never answered. The guard called his name over and over, but there was no reply.

Immediately, the guard shouted, "Squat down, everyone, hands on your heads!" He checked the list again and again—still one man missing. In prison, the most terrifying thing is a missing inmate. The guards instantly organized a search, but nothing turned up. The incident was reported straight to the prison command center. Within moments, armed guards and prison police rushed in, weapons loaded, and brought us all under control. The tension was palpable; no one dared move. Some inmates' legs were shaking, but squat they must. Anyone who moved would be in for trouble.

Sirens wailed throughout the entire prison—every block, every workshop, everyone was rounded up, roll called, head counted.

Finally, the armed guards reported finding traces of a possible escape on the outer prison wall. Surveillance footage showed nothing, but later, they discovered the man at the corner outside the labor workshop. He was dead.

The cause of death: a sudden heart attack.

It happened because the prisoner had come from our block to the hospital. Unable to withstand the pressure of the labor squad, he attempted escape that night. He tried to scale the wall from the workshop roof, planning to cross the electric grid. Maybe the stress was too much, or perhaps he was simply terrified—his heart gave out, and he collapsed in the shrubbery, undiscovered until it was too late.

The armed police and guards had eight of us inmates carry his body back, placing it in a separate hospital room. Four men were assigned to keep watch in shifts, day and night. Even going to the bathroom was out of the question—we had to stand guard over the corpse. With that, how could anyone have the urge to eat or even relieve themselves?

Inside and out, the guards locked the block doors, the corridor doors, the cell doors. Guards stood at every checkpoint, the atmosphere stifling.

Among us was another inmate, Li Qiang, a Northeasterner built like a mountain at nearly six foot three. I stole a glance out the window. A black mass of police, prison guards, armed troops, and prison officials had gathered—even the warden and political commissar, men we rarely saw, were present. There were two officers with flowered epaulettes, a major and a lieutenant colonel. The scene was overwhelming.

I turned to Li Qiang and whispered, "Brother Qiang, so many people!"

He leaned over, took a look, and muttered, "Shit, even the warden’s here!"

I asked, "Is that an ambulance?"

"Of course," he replied.

"Do they still need to rescue him? The guy’s dead."

"Probably to take him away for an autopsy," Li Qiang guessed.

"Not cremation?"

"Not that simple. The prison has to investigate—cause, manner, an autopsy, legal procedures. It’ll be a hassle."

"And what about his family? Won’t they make a scene? Ask for compensation?"

Li Qiang shook his head. "Compensation? Every year the prison has a quota for deaths—but they can’t be from beatings, poisoning, starvation or overeating. Only accidental or natural deaths are allowed. Anything caused by staff or management is a problem."

"But if he died of a heart attack, doesn’t the prison bear some responsibility?"

"Technically, yes. But he tried to escape in the middle of the night. Even if they’d shot him, it would’ve been justified. He’s dead, but the living will pay the price."

"What do you mean? It’s not over yet?"

He sighed. "Strict management—at least two months, maybe longer. Things are going to get rough."

Li Qiang glanced at the corpse and muttered, "I swear, I could snap you in half. You’ve dragged down thousands of people. You’ve really done it now."

I groaned, "Just my luck to have this happen right after I got here."

Li Qiang replied, "The unluckiest is his cellmate."

The cellmate—what we called a 'shadow'—was always paired with you. Every prisoner had one. Whether you were washing up, using the toilet, even squatting over the latrine, your shadow was there. You couldn’t go anywhere alone. If you did and got caught, you’d lose points, get stricter management, maybe even a beating from the headman.

"What’ll happen to his shadow?" I asked.

"Hard to say. Probably no sentence reduction for two years, three months of strict confinement, six months without family visits. It depends if he knew anything. If he did, maybe even an additional sentence."

"Additional time?"

"Yeah. If the shadow knew about the escape and didn’t report it, or helped, or just looked the other way—it all counts."

"Good grief. And what about us?"

"It happened at the hospital; we’re hard to clear. Someone’s got to take the blame."

At that moment, Li Qiang lowered his voice urgently, "Quick, get back in line—they’re coming in!"

From the rattling of the heavy iron doors downstairs and the growing din, it was clear a throng was coming up the stairs.

We could only do as we were told, keeping to our corner as the officials entered. The block leader reported the events and their handling to the warden and commissar. The warden said little, finally signing off with a flourish. Then the dead prisoner was taken away. The guards called several inmates, including us, to roll the body and gather his belongings. Seven or eight of us lifted a corner each, hoisting him by the sheet. I opened the doors, then the ambulance hatch. On the count of three, we lifted him in—one last journey for a poor man not yet fifty, whose life ended here. Had he lived, he’d have been in his sixties before seeing freedom again. Pitiful, really.

He’d probably spent years here, from initial discomfort to finally making a life for himself. I’d come to like this place, in a way, and better understood the hardships and worries of those at the bottom. I’d cared for many—those who left, those who came, those who left and returned, sometimes ten times or more.

Why? Some old men had children but no one to care for them. They couldn’t manage on their own—even basic needs were a struggle. Eating, drinking, toileting were all problems. So they’d commit a minor crime just to come back for care. Here, it didn’t cost a thing—better than a nursing home. Someone took care of them. No need to work, no worries about food or water, no worries about seeing a doctor, or about dying with no one to cremate you. Each had two inmates on twenty-four-hour watch. Especially high-risk elderly—over sixty-five—were watched day and night, even checked at night to see if they were still breathing.

How much harder for those with no family at all.

There was one inmate, my cellmate and a good friend, sentenced to three years. Not long after, he was transferred to our senior block because of his age and good behavior. He was talented—could write, sing, play, compose—and earned plenty of points for arts and culture in prison. I admired him. He’d taught me much, almost like a mentor.

The day before his release, the two of us and two dorm monitors shared a meal: tea, meat, canned goods, whatever we could scrounge. That’s how it was—everyone pitched in, bringing something from their stash. The old men treated us better than family; otherwise, if you fouled yourself, you’d just have to bear it.

We chatted late into the night, reluctant to part.

But not a month later, he was back. He’d been released on parole—different from a sentence reduction. He had a year or two left, but during that time, even a minor fight could land him back inside. Every week he had to check in with the community, do forced labor, volunteer work—no exceptions.

He came back because, when he was admitted, he had kidney stones and trouble urinating. In prison, food was safe, regular, and he could get medicine. Outside, no one cared. So he deliberately got himself arrested again—rumor had it he sabotaged a hospital machine worth millions. I secretly admired him, that stubborn bull. He did what no one else dared, venting his anger in a spectacular way.

Now he was back, with thirteen more years tacked on—hence his nickname, 'Brother Thirteen.' Plus two months for violating parole. Thirteen years and two months—all so he could get treatment, since he also showed signs of uremia. In prison, he’d been getting better; outside, it all unraveled. Now he could settle in, get treatment, and live out his days. As we said, if you’ve nothing outside, you might as well live boldly in prison—life’s happier that way.

It’s these hardships that taught me so much. Out of boredom, I read voraciously—law, finance, agriculture, politics, history. My wide reading shaped the vibrant life I’d later lead.

Why say prison forges talent? Because everyone here is either exceptional or utterly fallen. Good or bad, the intelligence is high, and some lives could fill a book. Mine too. I tried writing one, in fact—started several times, but the drafts were always confiscated. Nothing with writing could be taken out, so the project was shelved. Those who’ve done time—unless they re-offend—always live on the edge. Their experience and thinking are a world apart from others. Even me. Two worlds, forever separate.

Time flies. My new life is about to begin. I still remember a song composed by a cellmate:

Soaring,
I once was an eagle, soaring on the sea breeze,
But on that stormy, thunderous night, I lost my way,
Alone, adrift among the waves, my wings broken,
It was the government that lit my path and gave me hope.
No longer wounded, no longer lost,
I spread my wings again,
Soaring toward the heaven of hope,
Soaring toward my beloved home,
Toward the parents I yearn for.