The cell was cold. Not the kind of cold that makes you shiver, but the kind that seeps into your bones, making you feel like the warmth has been sucked out of the world. I sat on the metal cot, my back against the concrete wall, my head resting on my knees. The thin, stained mattress did nothing to soften the unyielding metal beneath. It was just another layer of discomfort in a place that seemed designed to strip you of anything that felt human.
I closed my eyes, but the darkness behind my eyelids was just as suffocating. There was no escape. Not from the cell, and definitely not from myself.
I could hear the other inmates. Their voices echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the walls, distorted and hollow. They were talking, laughing, shouting. Life was happening outside my cell, even if it was just prison life. But inside, it was silent. And that silence was loud enough to crush me.
For years, I had filled every silent moment with something. Drugs, alcohol, noise, people. Anything to keep the silence from creeping in, from forcing me to listen to myself. But here, in this cell, there was nothing. Just the cold, the echo of distant voices, and the crushing weight of my own thoughts.
My mind played back the moments that led me here, over and over, like a film reel stuck on repeat. The parties, the highs, the careless arrogance that made me feel invincible. The look on my father’s face when he saw the mugshot. The look on my son’s face when he realized his dad wasn’t coming home.
I had always been able to charm my way out of trouble before. I was the golden boy, the one who could light up a room just by walking into it. None of that mattered here. Here, I was just another inmate. Just another man who had messed up so badly that society decided I wasn’t worth the risk.
I looked down at my hands, wrists wrapped in metal cuffs that were chafing my skin. My hands were shaking. This was the cost of living without consequences. This was what happened when you thought you were too clever, too charming, too important to fall.
My chest tightened, my throat burning. I realized I was crying.
The tears were silent at first, sliding down my face and dripping off my chin. But then the sobs came, heavy and ugly, tearing out of me like something that had been buried for too long. I doubled over, my arms wrapped around my knees, my body shaking so hard I could barely breathe. I tried to muffle the sound, pressing my face into my knees, but I couldn’t stop. I cried for the man I was supposed to be, for the people I had hurt, for the little boy who was given drugs instead of love.
I cried because I was alone. I cried because I had done this to myself.
When the sobs finally stopped, I was empty. My throat was raw, my body aching from the tension. But the silence was back, and this time, it felt different. It was no longer the silence of denial, of running away from myself. It was the silence of truth, of finally seeing the man I had become.
I was broken. Completely and utterly broken.
But maybe, just maybe, that meant I could start putting myself back together.
– Robert, formerly incarcerated
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