The year was 1984, an election year that whispered promises of change. But in Hexll County—where the 'X' is as silent as the grave—it was just another season under the unyielding rule of Sheriff J.D. Salazar. His name, standing alone on the ballot, was a stark reminder of the power he wielded, a power that seeped into the very stones of the jail itself.
My name is Alex Midas, and the tale I am about to share is as strange as it is true. It is about my nine harrowing days in Hexll County Jail. It all started with what should have been a routine traffic stop but spiraled into a journey through a town lost in time—San Padua.
This is a town where the rain fears to tread, where the grass is as stubborn as the secrets it keeps, and where the sheriff is not just a man; he is a legend.
Here, shadows loom longer, whispers carry further, and the line between reality and nightmare blurs with every sunset, painting a chilling portrait of my time in this godforsaken place.
It was a time of transition, not just in the political landscape, but within the cold, unforgiving walls of the county jail itself. The shift from the familiarity of handwritten logs to computerized machines brought a host of problems. A glitch in the system had ensnared more than just data—it ensnared lives, mine included.
On Sunday June 2, I was three exits from downtown San Padua. AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" blasted from the car stereo, its rebellious chords echoing through the cabin. I reached to turn the volume down, casting a glance over my shoulder at Jeffrey and Ramone, my loyal dogs. "Buddies, we're almost home. You remember San Padua?" Their ears perked up at the familiar name.
Suddenly, flashing blue and red lights filled my rearview mirror, accompanied by the wail of sirens. "What the hell?" I muttered, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. I exited the interstate, veering into a quiet residential area. The adrenaline surged through my veins as I tried to make sense of the situation, the shadows of tree-lined streets flickering past.
The deputies swooped in, yanking me from my car. "STEP OUT! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" barked one deputy, his badge glinting in the relentless Texas sun.
I remember the fear vividly. From the beginning, I cooperated, doing everything I was told. Yet, I still had at least half a dozen high-powered handguns and rifles pointed directly at me.
We were near a residential neighborhood on a summer afternoon, and all that went through my mind at that moment was the terrifying thought that if somebody's lawn mower backfired or a car accelerated and made a startling noise, those guns would go off.
As I pleaded for my life, the rights I believed protected me dissipated like the dust on the road that stretched behind us, empty and forgotten.
Looking back now, I wish I could warn myself about what was coming. But would I have even believed it? The Alex Midas who drove down the highway that day was still naive enough to believe in justice.
Hexll County Jail was a fortress, an oppressive monolith where the guards ruled like kings, indifferent to the laws meant to protect me. Isolated from the outside world, I couldn't reach an attorney or grasp at the fringes of due process. I became a specter within their system—my existence erased, my pleas for justice unheard.
When I arrived at the Hexll County Jail processing, it was 3:02 p.m.
“Next?” The intake specialist called out as she waved me toward her. Within the jail's confines, reality sank in under the oppressive weight of dim light. The processing room was narrow and claustrophobic, with thick air heavy with the lingering odor of mildew and sweat. This place was more than a detention center; it was a purgatory, blurring the lines between those who lived and those who merely existed.
After enduring two days in the intake area, my spirit wavered, and my mind slipped into survival mode. Sleep became a distant memory. Our meals—if they could be called that—were mockingly referred to as 'Johnnies.' They consisted of turkey bologna wedged between two slices of bread, a dollop of mustard, and a pair of cookies past their prime. This ration was repeated three times a day. My body rebelled against the monotony, and my stomach was a constant knot of hunger and revulsion.
The deprivation went beyond the pangs of sleep and starvation. It was a calculated effort to fray the edges of our minds. I tried talking about my rights and due process, but it was like shouting into the wind. The guards laughed, thriving on our misery. Each invocation of the Constitution seemed to draw the shadows tighter, dragging us deeper into despair.
Hexll County Jail was a beast unto itself, a state of being that toyed with one's grasp on reality. As time ground forward, it became clear that these walls were designed to break the human spirit, stripping away layers of humanity until nothing remained but a hollow shell.
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Here I am, Alex Midas, haunted by the memory of chains that bound me. They clung to my ankles with a ferocity that turned every step into torment. We, the shackled, sought solace in makeshift padding, but the iron was a relentless nightmare from which I could not wake. I attempted to shield my skin with the fabric of my jeans, but it was a feeble defense against the relentless metal.
I was not alone in my suffering. All around me, others bore the same cruel fate. Some inserted tissues between flesh and iron in a vain attempt to soften the chafing. Others limped, their movements broken by the chains that bound us. When we sought relief, when they dared to ask for the smallest measure of compassion, we were met with derision. The guards viewed our pain as an overreaction, their voices drowning out our pleas as effectively as the walls that imprisoned us.
In that place, empathy was a currency as rare as freedom itself, and the act of seeking aid was twisted into an act of defiance. It was abundantly clear that within the walls of Hexll County Jail, our very humanity was the first thing to be shackled.
"Excuse me, officer," one of the other inmates politely asked, "could you loosen these shackles around my ankles a bit? They're cutting into my skin, and any movement causes them to get tighter."
The officer looked back and, in a mocking higher pitch, mimicked, "Can you please loosen the shackles? Can you please loosen the shackles?" He then barked at the inmate, "Sit down and don't move. You want to act like a criminal, you're going to be treated like one!"
Within the oppressive walls, the Jail Emergency Response Team was a peculiar sight. Their oversized, cumbersome helmets made them look less like the formidable force they intended to be and more like a troupe of turtles—comical and oddly endearing. Whenever a scuffle broke out, they would surge forward with a zeal that was almost admirable, if it were not so tragically undermined by the sluggish elevators that served as an unexpected punchline to their efforts.
The inmates, weary from the unending vigil of sitting and waiting, found solace in these moments of levity. Laughter would ripple through the crowd as the JERTs stood in line, waiting for the elevator while the calls to 'take the stairs' echoed off the walls. It was a small, shared joke in a place that offered little to smile about.
Yet, even as we chuckled at the absurdity, we could not escape the reality of our situation.
Time lost all meaning under the unyielding glare of fluorescent lights. The relentless drone of the institution's machinery melded with the inmates' endless chatter, punctuated by moments of deafening silence that felt like wounds in the fabric of reality. Each new arrival brought the same desperate questions, echoing through our shared purgatory: "What day were you arrested? What time did you get here?" Nobody seemed to know anymore.
The worst were the screams. They came without warning—the sound of inmates fighting against restraints, their voices raw with panic as they were dragged to the medical ward.
"I DON'T NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION! PLEASE DON'T DO THAT!"
The pleas always ended the same way: one final, desperate cry cut short by the hiss of a sedative needle. In those moments, we all knew what waited for us if we lost control.
Three days of this—seventy-two hours of watching minds crack like glass under pressure—had a way of chipping away at your sanity until you weren't sure what was real anymore.
The walls seemed to close in, the air growing thicker with every passing hour. The monotony was mind-numbing, each second stretching into an eternity. My thoughts spiraled as I questioned reality. Was it morning? Night? Time blurred into an endless loop of fear and uncertainty.
The sounds of muffled cries and the distant clang of metal doors echoed in my mind. Madness crept in, whispering in my ear, urging me to give in. The other inmates became shadows, their faces a blur of despair and desperation.
Every scream, every cry for help, pierced deeper into my psyche. I felt my sense of self eroding with each passing minute. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the cold, hard floor.
In those moments of silence, when the chattering stopped and the world held its breath, the weight of incarceration pressed down on me. The claustrophobic walls, the oppressive atmosphere, the unending cycle of fear and hopelessness—it drove me to the brink.
Seventy-two hours felt like an eternity. In that eternity, I lost a part of myself.
In the intake area, an eerie silence fell over the crowd of inmates awaiting release. They had paid their dues, met the system's demands, yet freedom hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of a sergeant's temper. A single ill-timed catcall directed at a female guard unraveled the threads of order.
The sergeant's voice cut through the tension, sealing our fates. "No one is getting out tonight," he declared, his authority absolute, unchallenged. Eighty souls, poised on the cusp of liberty, were cast back into uncertainty—a collective punishment underscoring the lack of oversight.
As the night wore on, we realized we were not just inmates; we were pawns in a game where compassion was scarce, and control was king.
The sergeant's decision to delay our release until the morning supervisor's arrival was more than an inconvenience. It was a testament to the unchecked dominion of those who ran the jail. At that moment, it became clear that in this county, justice was a privilege granted by those who wielded power with careless abandon.
Even now, years later, I question whether what I saw next was real or if my mind had finally fractured under the weight of those endless hours. But the shadows... those shadows remain etched in my memory, more real than anything else in that godforsaken place.
As I sat on a chair, the oppressive silence shattered with a chilling sound—a wail echoed through the halls. Shadows grew bolder as time stretched on. I caught glimpses of movement in empty cells and heard whispers in unknown languages that somehow conveyed danger. In the corner of my eye, something shifted—a darkness deeper than the night.
After seventy-two hours in Hexll County Jail, the guards weren't the only ones walking these halls. Whether the others could see them too, I couldn't say. But I knew the
y were there, waiting. And somehow, I knew this was only the beginning.