I enjoyed calling my friend “Mr. Bill,” because I truly respected him that much. I was a person who never respected anyone.

We were both abused in the home. I was born into a family of alcoholics. No pretty words can describe my parents: they were drunks. My dad was a mean drunk. He would come home from work, see me, and decide it was time for his workout. He weighed 200 pounds and used a closed fist. My mother was no saint; she would often get a few kicks in when my dad was finished. From the age of 5 to 16, I got beaten on a near daily basis. Twice I almost died. I always tried to figure out what I was doing wrong so I could change it and stop the beatings. Vivid in my memory is my father constantly telling me, “Stop your crying. Real men don’t cry.” I learned this lesson well and carried it inside till late in life.

Billy’s abuse was far different and more painful and destructive. His stepfather sexually abused and raped him between the ages of 10 and 12. Billy was shooting up heroin by age 14; a full-blown junkie by 16. I would tell him I wish we could have changed places—I wished I could have spared him the pain.

We met in 1975. He had 18 months in on his natural life sentence. I had nine. At first I didn’t like him. Prisons are not about making friends and building up trust. We were seen as mad-dog killers, no longer human but the sum of our con numbers. I deserved a murder rap because I beat a man to death. But Billy took part in an armed robbery that went wrong. His partner stabbed and killed a man, and by felony murder rule, all involved get charged with first-degree murder if someone dies. They convicted me of second-degree, making me eligible for parole after 15 years. Never did Billy show envy of my possible release.

We spent 11 years together before I was classed to another institution. For the next 11 years we had no contact or communication. There were times when someone would come up to me and ask if I knew Billy so and so, and my heart would literally skip a beat. The prison grapevine worked in those days and I’d get a full report on what my friend had been up to. Now the system has men so scared they won’t deliver messages like that.

I came kicking and screaming to the institution where I am today, which at the time was just for lifers. That meant if you came here, you died here. To my complete surprise, Billy greeted me in the yard. I had believed I would never experience real joy as a prisoner, but seeing him was a bucketful of joy for me. That was after being horrified at first at how much he had aged; but I too had aged badly. Prison takes its toll on you one way or the other.

Billy had changed in other ways, though: he was more relaxed and seemed to have achieved a hard-to-find kind of peace. I liked what I saw. And I wanted a change. I was too old to continue fighting the battles that ran inside me. So I started going to the programs he attended.

He had married a woman from out of state. I myself had met a woman and shared a wonderful friendship with her for 25 years. Pam wanted more than a friendship, but I always insisted she could do better than me. I cared about her but feared hurting her. When she died in 2005, I felt a pain that for the first time no pill could relieve. It was Billy and other good friends here who propped me up and carried me through the toughest period of my life. I contemplated suicide but these friends smothered me with love. While the system did not once give a rat’s ass about my torment, this group of men society deemed unworthy to be on the streets nursed me back to a functioning human being.

Billy got us both enrolled in an in-house 4-year college program. I wanted to quit the first semester because I didn’t think I was smart enough. Billy faltered right from the start. But I did well, and I encouraged him and he hung in and began to do well also. Then Billy got sick.

Initially we thought it was just a stomach thing. The food here isn't always the best. He couldn't keep anything down. He put in sick slip after sick slip. They answered with antacid tablets. I try not to be critical of the medical staff here but they really dropped the ball on this one. He kept getting worse. It took months before they did the blood work that showed something truly wrong.

They finally began taking him out to the hospital, where after months more of tests, needles, and MRI’s, they determined he had incurable cancer tumors in his liver. Only a liver transplant might have helped. But inmates are barred from such things. Our lives are less valuable than others’. Billy went from diagnosis to death in under two months.

Some people will say I'm lucky because I could spend time with my friend before he died. But I say bullshit—my life turned into a living hell. I watched him die on a daily basis, piece by piece, cell by cell. I kept myself in a constant state of denial. Billy was not going to die. He would beat this dreaded disease.

I watched him lose most of his body weight. His voice became a tiny whisper as he constantly threw up and his own stomach acids ate away the lining in his throat. The times when he could barely walk, they would take him out to the hospital and put him on meds and IV’s. He would rebound and they’d send him back. We would go through this process half a dozen times. Each time the pain worsened for me.

We walked the yard together before his final trip out. I was able to tell him the things I needed to, including that I loved him, which he just kinda waved off with a weak smile. When I got wind they were about to take him, I ran down to our Health Services Unit to see him one last time. I hugged him. I didn’t care what others thought. Love and compassion are not common sights in this place. I whispered in his ear I was sorry I hadn't been able to comfort him and ease his pain. He whispered back, “You've been a good friend.” Those, his last words to me, keep echoing in my head.

News of his passing brought me to my knees. I have always been a strong man. I have always been able to take a punch or beating without a whimper. But the death of my friend hurt me in ways I couldn't prepare for. And then the hardest thing I ever had to do was tell Billy's wife Patty. I must have written ten letters before I got it right. Finding out that she had come to Massachusetts, spent the last days with her love, and taken his body back to New York for burial gave me some relief.

I am still mourning the loss of my friend. There are times when I run to my cell and cry. In writing this I have had to stop a few times to shed tears. My voice still cracks when I go to speak of him. As I write, it is 14 days to the anniversary of his passing. When I look back, it’s like looking at a train wreck. I'm the train wreck. I have been in prison for 35 years and have never been on such a rollercoaster of feelings and emotions.

I speak to Billy often. Some will think I'm nuts but I keep a conscious link with my friend. I know that wherever he may be, he is at peace, his torment is over. And I have asked that when my time arrives, he come to get me and help me on my journey.

I have continued on with college; I'm a little over half way to getting a degree. I'm going to get that degree for Billy. Patty and I write regularly and are becoming friends. Billy would have liked that. I now try to help others the way he helped me. I have friends here, and even outside friends from the programs I attend, who knew Billy, who are there for me when I need them. Seeing their grief and sorrow is important to me. I have put on 30 lbs. using food for comfort, which has not been good for me. After New Year's its diet, diet, diet.

The prison system still grinds, its wheels slowly turning. It treated Billy's death as just another change in the prison count. Someone will take his place, his bed will be filled, all's back in balance once again. What doesn’t figure in the system is that one of its occupants, one of its numbers, once angry, hardened, and mean, would fully become a human being who feels and cares.