MARIANNA — THE MEN REMEMBER THE SAME THINGS:
blood on the walls, bits of lip or tongue on the pillow, the smell of
urine and whiskey, the way the bed springs sang with each blow.
The way they cried out for Jesus or mama. The grinding of the old
fan that muffled their cries. The one-armed man who swung the
strap.
They remember walking into the dark little building on the
campus of the Florida School for Boys, in bare feet and white
pajamas, afraid they’d never walk out.

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