Young Writers Society

It’s hard to turn emotion into words. All the anger and frustration needs a way out, but I’ve never been much more violence. It’s sad that hardly anyone will believe that anymore.

The last few years have been hard on me. I stopped counting somewhere around sixteen. The monotonous drone of prison life can make the days blur together. Not only that, but each day drags on. Days feel like weeks. Each passing year feels like two. It can drive a man insane. Not that anyone would notice. They already think that I’m insane.

I lay back on my bed in the dark. The only sounds are that of prison guards’ feet scuffling along the concrete floor and my fellow inmates praying to their selective gods, most of them newbies, sobbing their words out. They all ask for forgiveness, or to watch over their families or even just to simply end their misery now. It’s a terrible noise, but you get used to it. It becomes easier to ignore with each new wave of newbies coming in. Eventually they all stop and accept that they’re not getting out, but then more pour in and start the process all over again.

As insomnia wins out once more I automatically reach under my mattress for the one thing I can truly call my own. I feel the old glossy paper crinkle between my fingers. Gently as I can, I pull it out. In the pale moonlight, I can just make out the thin, flawless face in the ripped picture in my hand. For a while, I just gaze at her. I study every feature on her face. I allow myself to get lost in her eyes. I try to remember how she smelled, but it’s been more than a decade since I’ve even had a whiff.

I try to recollect everything I remember about her, which isn’t much, oddly enough. I know that I loved her, and that she loved me as well, but I can’t even remember her saying my name. I do remember her soft, gentle, elegant laughter. Just the thought of it, hearing it ring through my head put me to sleep.

My eyes snapped open after what felt like mere seconds. The shrill morning bell blared through the halls. I roll out of bed and stood up, waiting for my cell door to open. The warden gave his usual speech about how to get to the dining hall and how we would be severely punished if we misbehaved. A loud, ear shattering clanking filled the hall as the rusty cell doors opened simultaneously. I barely took a step out of my cell before I was tackled onto my back in the cell.

I lay there stupidly, trying to make sense of the situation, and also trying to get my breath back. My attacker stood up, smiling menacingly down at me as he regained his composure.

“Hey, Caine. Feelin’ good on your special day?” he said with a hint of an Irish accent. At first I didn’t understand. My mind was mainly focused on the rage coursing through me.

“Looks like today’s the day, Caine! You get out of this hell and walk a free man again. Aren’t you thrilled? Well are you? ARE YOU?” He paused as something caught his eye.

“Aw, who’s this? Your girlfriend? Or perhaps that silly little wife o’ yours?” he asked, picking up my picture from the floor. I tried to crawl over and grab him or something but he shoved his foot at my nose as hard as he could. The break was obvious with a cracking sound to go along with it. Warm, sticky blood gushed out of my nose and dribbled into my open mouth as I gasped for air.

“You bastard!” I shouted with what little adrenaline fueled strength I had. Little droplets of blood and spittle flew out of my mouth as I spoke. My attacker turned to face me, eyes filled with amusement. As though my feeble attempt to fight back was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. He leaned do to be at eye level with me.

Oh yeah? And what’re you gonna do about?” he asked with a taunting smirk.

I could hear the guards trying to make their way to my cell, past the men orderly walking to the dining hall as instructed. They weren’t rushing to help me so much as to detain the dumbass that was trying to get me to fight back so he can keep me here longer. No one’s gotten out of Stoneblock men’s correctional facility in 30 years on account of idiots like this picking fights on parole days just to get people longer sentences. But I can’t give in. I had been in that hell for twenty-five years and I didn’t even know why. I was getting that day. Period.

“Are you deaf? What’re you gonna do about it! Are you just gonna lie there and take it? Fight me, Dammit! FIGHT ME!” he shouted. His voice got more and more urgent as the guards loomed ever nearer.His glances at the door grew more frequent. Time was running out and he knew it.

“Get up goddammit!” he yelled. He picked me up by my shirt coller and slammed my body into the north wall of my cell.

“”FIGHT ME!” he repeated. His anxiety was thinly veiled. Two guards finally made it past the crowd and into my cell.

“Hey, get offa him!” one shouted. Together they detained my attacker, but they were clumsy with the bindings, givin my attacker a last hance to speak with me. He leaned in as close as he could.

“You think youre done with Stoneblock? No one is ever done with Stoneblock. You’ll never be the same. When every member of society has rejected you, you’ll finish the job, just so you can come running home to Stoneblock. LOOK OUT, SONNY BOY! DADDY’S COMING!” The guards drug him away as he continued to scream at me. One calls for extra help to retrieve me.