I’ll never be like him.
Manuel Blanco is a stone-cold bastard. Ice in his veins and an evil smirk on his lips that would indicate very little of that peskyempathythe rest of us are dealing with.
Still, part of me has to wonder if Manuel Blanco has always been the way he is, or if he too has become hardened over timeas a result of what he does—running the cartel, a position he apparently inherited before he turned thirty.
Again, I’m not privy to the details of his work, but being on this island, living and working closely with him, especially in the early days when it was just us, you pick up on stuff. And what I’ve picked up on is more or less exactly what you’d expect.
Drugs. Territory. Corruption.
Money, power, respect, as the song goes. Threats as a second language, and when they don’t stick, violence inflicted without even batting an eye.
But the most pertinent of all these things iscontrol. Without that, the rest of it falls apart, and the one thing I noticed, almost immediately, was that The Ivory would sooner take a bullet between the eyes than give up the control he’s acquired by any means necessary.
Either way, I have enough on my plate as it is without worrying about the levels of depravity in my employer. Alabaster Penitentiary is more than just a full-time job. It’s a lifestyle, but one I didn’t choose. Lost somewhere in the vast forest between arelationshipand aburden.
The prison is a living, breathing organism; a monster with an insatiable appetite that needs to be fed and tended to constantly.
Every step of the way has been an experiment, for us as much as The Ivory. A certain learning curve was to be expected, though it was stressed to me,heavilyin the beginning by Manuel Blanco, that mistakes would come at a price. Onehewouldn’t be paying.
The early days were like existing in a hurt locker. I’d wake up in a cold sweat—that is, when I actuallyslept, rather than staring blankly into the void that was the high ceiling of my eerily quiet bedroom. I was in a constant state of panic that I’d cut the wrong wire, and any moment, something would gokaboom. It’d be all my fault, andIwould deal with those repercussions.
But the thing I’ve learned from Manuel Blanco is that when something is fragile, you guard it with your life. And youneverlet anyone know the truth. Because the moment they sense vulnerability, it’s all over.
“Look at these walls, Jonathan,” he’d said to me during one of our first walk-throughs of the prison. “What do you think they’re made of?”
I gave him a puzzled look, wondering if it was a trick question. He just stared back at me until I answered, “Concrete?”
His mouth twisted into a cunningly pleased smile. It brought a rush of warm pride to my chest for getting it right, which I promptly swallowed down because it was idiotic.
“And the bars?” He cocked a light brow.
“Probably… steel of some kind,” I muttered.
“What if I told you… that they’re made of Styrofoam?” He smirked. “Painted to look like concrete, stone and rebar?”
My face flung in his direction. “Are they??”
He released a rumbling chuckle. “You’re so cute. No, dear, that would be ridiculous.” That time, I couldn’t fight the heat crawling up my neck. “But if Itoldyou that… you would think the walls were weak. And you would view this as a terrible place to house prisoners, because they could simply huff and puff andblowit all down.”
I snorted, lashes fluttering at the peculiarity of this manandthis situation. That he could even be making me laugh, while everything around us was so dreary, seemed… significant.
“My point, Jonathan, is thatperceptionis everything. Andunbreakableis subjective.”
He turned to face me, locking those cavernous orbs of obsidian on my face. I felt as if they were physically holding me down.
Reaching out, he brushed his fingers along my jaw. My breathing went instantly shallow, shivers sheeting my flesh.
“Whether we’re surrounded by the sturdiest of concrete, or hollow plastic…Protecttheillusion. Be the walls that hold it all together, Jonathan. And never,evershow weakness.”
As confusing as aspects of this island have been for me, those words, thatadvicewas simple. And I’ve made it a point to follow it in every move made here since.
In training my team of guards and overseeing the prisoners that began trickling in only a few months later… Ibecamethe walls. Sturdy and reinforced.
That structure has kept things running and will keep everyone in line. Even if the stability is… exaggerated.Especiallythen. We protect the illusion. Because ordered chaos brings balance.
Whether it’s all made up of concrete or styrofoam still remains to be seen…But it works.
George Costanza said it best… It’s not a lie ifyoubelieve it.
