The Hughes Unit in Gatesville, Texas, was a concrete jungle in the 1990s, a place where power was currency and weakness got you crushed. my brother was known as Big Holmes, was a giant—six-foot-three, over four hundred pounds, his bulk making the cell feel like a coffin. He was locked up for some trump up charge he swore was a frame-up, no evidence to pin him, the injustice fueling his defiance. His cellmate, Carl Eugene Watts, was a wiry, quiet guy, small enough to vanish in Holmes’ shadow. For four months, Holmes didn’t know he was bunking with the “Sunday Morning Slasher,” a serial killer with dozens of bodies to his name. To him, Carl was just a mark. Prison sharpens your edges, and Big Holmes leaned hard into his size. Carl, with his slight frame and silent stare. Holmes messed with him to kill time, to own the cell. He’d snatch Carl’s tray at chow, piling extra beans or cornbread onto his own plate. Carl he’d growl, smirking as Carl ate scraps. After meals, Holmes would wipe his greasy hands on Carl’s shirt while he was wearing it, smearing stains like a brand. At night, he’d lean from his top bunk and rip a fart in Carl’s face while he wrote letters at the cell’s tiny table. Carl wouldn’t flinch, just keep scribbling, his pen steady. Holmes would climb to his bunk by stomping on the table, his massive boots crumpling Carl’s pages. He’d flick Carl’s ear passing by, kick his soap into the sink, and took over Carl’s locker for extra storage—his snacks, clothes, and gear stuffed in there, forcing Carl to ask permission just to grab his own toothbrush or socks. Holmes even made Carl wash and fold his clothes, handing over sweaty shirts and socks with a nod, like it was Carl’s job. Carl did it, silent as ever, but Holmes noticed him getting quieter, his head lower, like the weight of it all was breaking him. Looking back, Holmes figured Carl was so beat down he might’ve been thinking about killing himself. The nights were worse. Sometimes, Holmes would wake in the dark, his eyes catching Carl leaning against the cell wall, staring at him as he slept. Those flat, empty eyes locked on him, unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey. It pissed Holmes off. “Take your bitch ass to bed,” he’d snarl, swinging his hand to slap Carl across the face, the crack loud in the quiet. Carl would turn, climb into his bunk, and say nothing. Holmes thought he was just weird. He didn’t know those stares belonged to a man who’d killed dozens.For four months, it went like that—Holmes pushing, Carl taking it, looking more broken by the day. Carl’s table was his sanctuary, where he’d write letters for hours, page after page in a neat, slanted script. Holmes never cared who they were for, but he’d smudge them with his boots or smear Carl’s shirt anyway. The locker, the laundry, the slaps—it was all control, and Holmes reveled in it. But something about Carl’s silence, the way he seemed to shrink, started to gnaw at him. Those midnight stares weren’t just meekness. They were heavy, like a coiled snake. The truth hit in the day room on a Sunday. The TV was blaring 60 Minutes, and a segment on serial killers flashed up. The name “Carl Eugene Watts” appeared, paired with “Sunday Morning Slasher” and a trail of bodies—women strangled, stabbed, drowned in Houston alleys and Michigan swamps, chosen for “evil eyes.” Watts had copped a plea in ’82 for burglary with intent to murder, a deal that almost freed him until more killings pinned him for life. The day room erupted, inmates turning to Big Holmes, giggling and whispering. “That’s your Cellie, Big Holmes!” one laughed. “You been fuckin’ with a killer!” Their chuckles cut sharp, a mix of nerves and glee. Holmes sat stone-faced, the TV’s glow burning the truth into him. Those midnight stares weren’t just weird—they were deadly. Watts wasn’t a punk; he was a predator, suspected in over 90 murders, a man who’d told cops he’d kill again if he could. Back in the cell, Holmes saw him different. The letters, the silence, the way he took every slap, smear, and slight, even washing Holmes’ clothes and asking to use his own locker—it wasn’t just weakness. It was patience, maybe a killer biding his time, or a man so worn he was thinking of ending it all. Years later, me watching a Netflix show about Jeffrey Dahmer, Holmes got to talking. The Dahmer story, those cold eyes and quiet menace, brought it all back. He told you about those nights in Gatesville, waking to find Carl leaning against the wall, staring like he was plotting murder. “I think he was planning’ to kill me,” Holmes said, his voice low. “But the way he was actin’—head down, quiet, takin’ all my shit—I think he was ready to kill himself too.” He never apologized to Carl, never would. Big Holmes, wrongfully caged, didn’t do sorry—not for a killer, not for anyone. But after 60 Minutes, he stopped the games. No more food theft, no more farting, no more stomping on letters, smearing Carl’s shirt, slaps in the dark, or using his locker. He didn’t say why, and Carl didn’t ask. They just coexisted, two men in a cell, one knowing the other’s darkness. Carl Eugene Watts died in 2007, prostate cancer taking him in a Michigan prison after Texas shipped him out. Big Holmes got out earlier, the false charge behind him, though its sting lingered. He doesn’t talk much about Gatesville, but when he does, it’s about Carl—those midnight stares, the day room laughs, the broken look in Carl’s eyes, the chill of realizing who he’d been prodding. “I was lucky,” he says, eyes distant. “Didn’t know what I was dealing’ with.”
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