Comradery of the Damned: Notes from an American Asylum

By Owen Ashe

Comradery of the Damned is a 2021 debut novella by American author Owen Ashe. Set in 2013, the book is an autobiographical collection of journal entries, centered on the narrator's institutional transfer from an unnamed jail to Salinas Valley State Prison. It concerns the experience of incarceration in Ca

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cereal Box Studio
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733516945

Book preview

Item Zero

In solitary confinement the sheriffs would hand out blue BIC razors at 5:00 in the morning, so we could shave for court… or slit our wrists and abscond. It was the jail’s only compassionate policy.

One morning I cut my arm from wrist to elbow, laid down on the concrete and wriggled myself into the crawl space under the steel bunk which was bolted to the wall of my cell. I intended to cling to the bottom of my bunk to delay medical attention. A passing officer did notice the blood splattered on the floor and hit his panic button, triggering a facility-wide security response.

When the cavalry arrived, they tried to dislodge me. They pepper sprayed me, cracked my ribs with a mop handle, and beat my hands and feet with batons. I held firm, but when blood loss sapped my strength, I lost my grip on the bunk. I was dizzy, pliant, and no longer resisting when they dragged me from under the bunk, but predictably, they beat me. It was not the worst beating I have ever received, but it was a contender.

As I continued to bleed out under that pile of angry cops, I could see the nurses nearby, tourniquets in hand, waiting their turn.

In my youth I learned that evading or fighting the cops resulted in a beating. Since I was usually in the wrong I took the abuse in stride, but when they beat me for cutting my wrists it changed me. I didn’t start hating the cops, but I did start caring more about the people who are trapped in our asylums… and anyone else who, in their greatest moment of need, is attacked by systems which are meant to protect them.

From that point forward I knew I had to do something. I carried the intent to do something for years, as I was moved from jail to prison and prison to jail, languishing in California’s most violent and corrupt prison yard asylums and jail house psych-units. Years watching other incarcerated people get beaten up on account of their mental illness, and the mental illness of our keepers. Finally I did do something. I started to write.

I have written about the wild garden of souls which is locked behind these walls. I have written about cellmates, friends, and family members who have been touched by incarceration. I have written about the lives they lived while free and while incarcerated. Some stories I wrote simply because not writing them would have hurt more. It is my hope that through these tales, an accurate portrait of the modern American asylum will start to take form.

I write under the pseudonym Owen Ashe to protect the privacy of friends and family whose criminal and psychiatric histories are referenced in these writings. I have also changed the names of the people I have written about. In all other respects I have made a practice of honesty.

Item One

In 2013 my home was Salinas Valley State Prison, AKA Little Beirut. I was housed on D-Yard, a high security asylum within the prison’s walls. I was four years into a 20-year sentence, and life was kind of looking up.

Abdul had finally sold me his emerald green prayer rug, for $10 worth of coffee, which functioned nicely as a yoga mat. I had finally found a celly who didn’t drive me nuts. I had finally started to make a decent living off the chess tables. I had fallen in with a group of worthwhile comrades, which had assembled over the course of years. In short, I had finally gotten settled into this little ghetto in the countryside – known commonly as a prison.

Then, a tomahawk from the blue. I was called into the counselor’s office and served a fresh warrant. Armed robbery. I had expected this, but not for years to come.

This new warrant meant I was officially awaiting extradition. Whenever (censored) County decided to pick me up I would be cuffed, shackled, loaded on a bus, and shipped away from the veritable paradise of my sunny exercise yard, away from my comrades, my cellmate, my AM/FM radio, and my cherished prayer rug. In exchange, I would be thrust into a cramped jailhouse with myriad, random, freshly arrested strangers.

Booking, (censored) County Jail, Spring 2013

It took (censored) County months to extradite me, but now I’m here, sitting on this frigid steel bench in the drunk tank waiting for the psychologist to come screen me, so I can get processed into one of the jail’s psych-wards.

Cell, (censored) County Jail, Spring 2013

Hidden two floors below ground