Читать книгу Insanity - My Mad Life - Charles Bronson - Страница 18

I’ve watched the old men in the asylums. Men of 70, even 80, who have been locked away all their lives. I’ve even seen them die, go to sleep in a chair and never wake up. They arrived 40-odd years before in a straitjacket, and left in a body bag. They only ever knew one life — madness.

But when these madmen get to a certain stage, their eyes go dead. There is no more sunshine, no more to see, just memories in a cage. Forgotten men. They’re just waiting to die.

There is a hell before they arrive. I’ve spoken to these old men. I’ve tried to understand them, but they’re too far gone. Their eyes say it all. It’s a bit like looking into a hole in the earth … emptiness!

I’ve always said to myself, over and over, ‘Don’t end up this way.’ Well, I’ve spent nearly two-and-a-half decades behind closed doors and nearly three decades behind bars — I’m still in a fucking cage! So I had better be careful. I don’t want dead eyes — the bullet would be better.

I personally could never come to terms with my label of ‘Criminally Insane’. Just because of my violent outbursts in prison, it doesn’t mean to say I’m mad. Obviously I had become a disruptive element within the penal system. Uncontrollable! Unpredictable! But that doesn’t make me insane!

I’ll go as far as admitting I had problems, severe psychological problems. The reason for this was that my prison life had become a war. I felt every day was a struggle, so violence was inevitable! It was the only way to get myself heard. One doctor once told me I was a victim of my own notoriety. Prison officers saw me as a threat, so they made my life hell. And, basically, that’s what pushed me over the edge.

I survived every sort of punishment and, in the end, there was no more, only to be certified mad. The asylums really opened my eyes. They had a strange effect on my personality. As the years rolled by, would you believe, I became a more compassionate man. For example, in prison I would punch a con’s face in if he had killed his wife or mother, but I soon realised they were very sick people. Asylums are full of tragic cases. Some of these guys killed their whole families while in a depressed state.

I’ve seen them live with the memory, year after year. Smashing their heads into walls, cutting their throats, screaming in their sleep. They live on in horror, in a ‘drug haze’. Yeah, some of these old boys I’ve met in the asylums are tragic cases. They tell me if a man loses his roots, he also loses his soul. I believe this. I swear to God, the thought of me dying an old man in a madhouse just turns my blood cold! If this were my end, then I’d sooner die today.

A lot of these old boys have spent three-quarters of their life inside, so really it would be cruel to set them free. Imagine it! Fifty years in a lunatic asylum, living with dangerous killers, then at the age of 70 they free you! It just can’t happen! There were times I was up on the roof protesting for better treatment and better conditions, when some of these old boys were shouting up to me from their cell windows, ‘Come down, stop tearing our roof off.’

This used to confuse me, as in a prison cons would shout, ‘Tear the place to bits.’ But these old boys were in my heart. They had suffered more years than any men I knew. Obviously, they were mad or had been. One had killed two men with his bare hands. But that was long ago, before arthritis set in! These old boys were legends, historic, myths waiting to be born!

After a while, one learns to accept the madness. I was surrounded with it. Some of the madmen are really fun to be with, and I soon learned to relate to them. I soon became one of them. I ended up the maddest of the mad. There is no one madder than myself! Please believe it. But my madness is still a mystery. There is no cure, as there is no diagnosis. Over the years, I’ve been labelled all sorts. Nowadays, I just don’t care; I’ve taken the Frank Zappa stance. I am who I am! Some love me, some loathe me, some respect me and some despise me. But after all that’s been, I still love the insane, as they’re exciting, dangerous and highly explosive! For me, mad dogs are gentlemen.

I end this chapter with a poem of mine:

Psychopathic Poet

Yeah, I put three bullets in his head.

If that’s what the coppers said.

Yeah, I stabbed a man through the heart,

Twenty-five times with a poison dart.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve done it all.

I’ve lived my life behind this wall!

The girl I loved she passed away,

My blood ran cold that tragic day!

Soul deep I’ve tried to find,

Red-hot coals inside my mind!

Charles Bronson

Prison No. BT1314