They Call Me Worm

‘Crammed with stories,  
verses, lines and poems,  
taken daily from real life,
what’s left is all that counts.’   

Graffiti, Worm’s prison cell

I was sitting at the battered table in my cell cradling my head, heavy as lead, in my hands and sipping green tea from a cup. I let loose a ‘Damn!’ as the boiling water scalded my lips and pain coursed across my face like a wildfire in the Australian Outback. Annoyed, I donned a pair of sturdy shoes so I would be ready to start work.

A new day had dawned. It had now been exactly 8 years, 3 months and 6 days since I’d been sent to prison. How could I be so sure? I’d always been a precise kind of person, fussy, even. A trait that eventually put paid to my career as a criminal, as I’d made a habit of painstakingly noting down the names of all the clients I regularly supplied with mind-expanding drugs, along with their monthly consignments of goods. My father always used to tell me: ‘Write and you’ll be remembered’. For at least 9.6 years of prison time in my case, according to the courts.

So now I’d become the bloke they called Worm, always willing to lend an ear when other people wanted to talk. Except when they made the usual requests for tobacco or coffee, because I’d given up smoking a long time ago and green tea was my only hot drink of choice.

I casually took a dose of the stuff I would usually brew for the others. Because that’s something else I was known for. Thinking up recipes for my fellow inmates to help them get through a crisis. A key rattled in the lock, the sound reminding me that it was time to get down to work.

I stepped into the corridor to be greeted on the spot with a barrage of mysterious questions.
‘Hey, Worm, heard the news?’
‘Hey, Worm, you in the loop?’

People in prison don’t get to the point straight away. If someone has information to share, they always start with a lengthy introduction. Messages on the grapevine come through louder and clearer than Radio Gaga.

‘No, I’ve only been in the corridor for 14 seconds,’ I clarify.
‘Mecki tried to put himself away yesterday. But they found him just in time.’

In here, putting yourself away means committing suicide. So it seemed Mecki had tried to kill himself. Something like that always created an uproar.

‘Mecki literally still had skeletons in his cupboard!’
‘Mecki’s girlfriend cheated on him on the outside!’
‘Mecki owes the Ripper money!’

The usual storm of totally unsubstantiated rumours rained down; the eventual winner would probably be the one spread by whoever managed to sell it best, dressing it up as a true crime podcast. But I wanted to know the truth, because that was the only way I might stand a chance of helping him.

I suddenly noticed that Cem had sneaked up behind me. Not usually a good sign in prison, but Cem was in for holding up three cash vans with a rocket launcher, and quiet entrances weren’t generally his thing, so I was more surprised than scared.

‘Hey, Worm, let’s talk,’ he greeted me, charming as ever.
‘Cem, hi, afraid my mind’s elsewhere at the moment. This thing with Mecki’s really bothering me,’ I responded.

‘Aw, come on, bro.’ In here, you immediately became part of the family every time someone wanted something from you. ‘And I’ve got some information for you about Mecki. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,’ he continued.

I accepted the offer. ‘Ok, what’s on your mind?’
‘Keep this to yourself. The Mecki thing’s bothering me too. I’m just as close as him to having a meltdown. Giving up. I’ve even started writing poems. I feel like a Viking who’s suddenly taken to baking unicorn biscuits. Let me show you one of them:

Papa was a Rolling Stone,
Mama was a doozer,
I couldn’t even learn a trade,
at best I was a loser,

Papa loved his vinyl records,
Mama loved a joke,
I only found this kind of love
when shooting up with coke.

‘What a hopeless epitaph to life, eh?’
I could feel myself rolling my eyes as if in slow motion.

‘Cem, that’s really cool. I think you’ve found something you should definitely keep working at. I bet it makes you feel properly free, at least on the inside. Trust me, I’ll stop by tomorrow with a special brew from my lab. And then things will start to look rosier again. Just you wait.’
Cem turned up the corners of his mouth and agreed with a wink.

‘Great, that always helps. Ok, my turn now. Forget all the stupid rumours. Mecki was over at mine just yesterday. The kid had lost all hope. And now his dog has gone and died on the outside. His last link to freedom. Just imagine, Worm. Him wanting to put himself away because of something like that. How low can you get? You have to help him somehow!’

I pressed the button on the intercom.
A tinny voice shot back: ‘What’s up, Schneider?’
‘Mr Dorner, I’ve scalded my lip really badly and need to see a medic straight away,’ I croaked like a wounded crow.
‘Dear oh dear, Schneider, you dozy bookworm. Take your eyes off the page when you’re drinking. I’ll be right over.’

The UNESCO Institute for Lifelong Learning works with stakeholders from across the world to strengthen prison education and prison libraries.

Reading, writing and using a prison library can open up a world beyond prison bars, allowing prisoners to forget for a time the harsh reality of prison life. Literacy initiatives can benefit individuals of any age by increasing their self-awareness and their ability to discuss thoughts and feelings. This, in turn, improves coping and problem-solving abilities and thus represents a powerful transformative tool for personal development in the prison environment.

Learn more  Books beyond bars: The transformative potential of prison libraries