Dog Pound
This. Place. Fucking. Sucks.
I have been in East Jersey State Prison for exactly one nightmarish week.
And since I arrived, I have been harassed, ridiculed, and bullied. It’s bullshit.
My life has become a strict routine of eating, sleeping, and showering. There’s no privacy. And I am continually accounted for and searched. If one ever loved their freedom, prison is the last place they’d ever want to find themselves.
I walk down the concrete hallway, filed in line with gang members, drug dealers, and thieves. I’m alone, defensive, and being pestered by the jerkoff with a do-rag behind me. I’ve been his target since I stepped foot inside these cement walls.
He whistles at me like a dog. Like he’s calling me to come. I ignore him, shuffling into the mess hall. I grab a tray, get in line, and feel him right behind me.
“I like pretty boys,” he hassles me, but I pay no attention to him, keeping my eyes trained straight ahead.
“I like all the new, hot little pieces of ass who parade around in front of me,” he rasps behind me. “I like breaking them in and calling them bitch.”
My stomach turns.Keep dreamin’, douchebag.I push forward, watching intensely as a pathetic looking sandwich is dropped on my tray.
“Can’t ignore me forever, pretty boy. I know where you live,” he taunts. His rotten, damp breath scratching against my skin.Gag.Every muscle in my body stands at attention as I keep moving forward.
“You know what else I like?” he rasps in my ear, then reaches around and grabs my crotch. “Pure white dick.”
Have you ever had a moment of total darkness? One where all your senses fall into an abyss? I don’t remember turning around. I don’t remember hitting him. Then hitting him again. And again. And again. I don’t remember the guards pulling me off him or the roar of the other inmates as they dragged me away. I don’t remember getting thrown into a four by four cell until my knuckles started to sting and my eyes started to focus.
My hands are swollen, and my shirt is soaked in blood.
Blood?
Not my blood.
I just beat another human being within an inch of his life. I’m shaking and numb, and I don’t regret it. Not one bit. He had it coming.
What I do regret is every decision I’ve made over the last four weeks. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this. When they closed those steel cage doors the first night, a little piece of me died. The piece that was put there by a beautiful blonde who for one second loved me. Believed in me. Gave me something to believe in.
I can’t control the violent emotions that are storming inside. The loss, the anger, the resentment. The weight of my entire existence bears down, and I crack. An explosion of tears soaks my face as I sob silently on my knees.
Alone.
Isolated.
Forlorn.
I don’t know how long I cry, but when there’s nothing left, I collapse, exhausted. I curl up into a ball on the cold concrete ground and let my thoughts drift as the sobs subside. I dream about a pair of warm, cognac eyes and delude myself into believing she’s here. Talking to me, consoling me, forgiving me. I hear her soft voice, feel her smooth skin, and smell the clean scent of her hair.
Thoughts of her are my only comfort. I fix them to me like an anchor. Let them drown me, allow them to save me, and then let them destroy me all over again.
* * *
Seven days of solitary confinement.
I’m finally allowed out into general population, and my pulse is racing. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know who I fucked with, and I don’t know if there’s going to be retaliation.
I walk through the drab halls and out into the exercise yard an uptight mess. But no one even glances in my direction. I walk along the outskirts of the yard skimming my hand along the steel fence, soaking up the Vitamin D. The sun hurts my eyes, but I crave the light. It’s early September and still warm. I’ve always enjoyed the outdoors. Surfing in the summer, hiking in the fall. I’ve never been cooped up, and living in a tiny box for twenty-three hours a day nearly drove me insane.
Once back inside, I wander aimlessly around the common area, just observing my surroundings. Inmates playing cards or watching TV. Some are writing letters or just chatting. It doesn’t feel tense right now. But you never know when that can change. I find myself in the library before I know it. I’ve never been one for reading, but I scan the shelves looking for something interesting. That’s when I come across a table with pamphlets and fliers. I pick one up that’s orange and gold and reads “Project Inside”. I flip it open and inspect the contents. It offers classes through Union County College for inmates. I scan the list of courses until I come across graphic design.
Hmmm.I hear Alana’s voice.I may not be an artist, but I know talent when I see it.
Even when she’s not in my life, she’s still influencing it. I don’t think that will ever change. She’s a part of me.
The voice in my head.
My North Star.