The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep

Frost, Robert.

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I sigh, as I first look at the blue sky in a long while, then focus on the yard filled with criminals. Even after spending six years inside for aggravated assault out of a ten-year sentence, I still fear that one day in this same yard with the same god-awful heat in West Texas ill die because I was in the wrong corner at the wrong time, or that I was leaning at the wrong spot in the fence.

I move along the dust-ridden ground and sit down on the usual bench of the Arian Brotherhood. I don’t believe in their neo-nazi and racist dogma, but I had to adapt if I was to overcome my sentence, plus they protected me, sometimes. It was either that or doing nasty business to people’s genitalia, and I truly treasure my anal virginity.

I am greeted by Shane and his ‘affiliates’ with smirks and quirky remarks about my appearance after I had my liver punctuated by a ‘home-brewed’ knife, made by a young boy from the 95's gang. The painfulness of the ‘shank’ still lingers in my mind and even after almost two months of recovery I still walk with a semi-limp, for which I am being mocked right now by my ‘gang’ peers.

Truth be told, I hate violence.

I still wonder why and how I came to be here like most of us do. In my unremarkable beliefs, some are born evil and some are mistreated by society to the point of being beyond repair. Then there are people like me, who did a bad deed once and are locked up and labeled as monsters for the rest of their lives. It amuses me when people say prison is the best way to correct someone.

My days consisted of a routine, first, I wake up and put on a facade of a criminal, then I head to the toilet and do my ‘'business’' in full view to the whole world to see, after having woken up I probe my cell-mate about the affairs of the multiple gangs, take a shower avoiding eye contact with most and lastly head for breakfast right afterward's to get the most disgusting meal a human being could possibly ask for. After all of this is done we are all escorted to the ‘yard’ like sheep for what they call exercise and bonding.

I truly hate what my life has become, I hate what this place stands for and I hate the people who make a profit off my hatred and suffering.

A large percent of prisons in the U.S.A is privet and profiting of Us inmates.

But the thing I abhor the most is fear that wells up inside me because I am scared of my release date. What will I do with myself? will I be able to adapt once again to the ‘normal’ world?

Many times at night I silently wonder how people would react if I killed myself or if someone took my life.

My mother would probably have a mixture of sadness and happiness, the kind only mothers could feel for their ‘wicked’ son’s after she got my death’s certificate. My father would probably be disappointed that I didn’t die sooner and my friends would treat the news of my death as gossip and I will eventually become part of some faded memory in peoples minds.

Sometimes feel like there is no other point in life other than to stare at the ceiling of my cage.

As I was having this little introspection about myself, Shane's voice reached my ears.

"So you’re finally back motherfucker, how is your liver doing?"

I harden my facade while sighing inwardly and respond. 

"I'm fine, just a couple of stitches and its good as new."

"Good, now ya can go back to work and start makin’ me money again’ like in the good old times."

A jolt of anxiety passes through my spine as I recall the illegal fighting Shane organizes for the guards as 'entertainment'.

The fact that I do not like violence doesn’t mean that I'm bad at fighting, it just means I came to dislike fighting in prison because of it’s raw and pure homicidal intent, the eat or be eaten atmosphere.

"I will do my best for the Brotherhood." I re-assure him while feeling my forehead moist.

"Good, good!"

Suddenly I hear a commotion coming from my right side and I shift my body immediately only to see the kid who stabbed me call me out loudly from the 95’s gang corner. I direct my gaze quickly to the shirt he lift’s showing his ink and a bright object to which I can only assume to be a razor of sorts imbued into a toothbrush stick.

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'Again he will come for me, and this time I can assume he will finish the job.' I try my best to keep my hands stead while watching the rowdy crowd.

Fear invades my body but also another feeling, deep down I feel relief, as it seems my time will come soon.

I ignore the insults and badmouthing and focus on Shane’s face as he smirks knowingly. As I had suspected while bedridden in the infirmary, I outlived my usefulness in this hell-hole and probably die by the schemes of Shane and the 95’s boss, Carter.

Disgusted and fearful I get up from the bench and go directly towards my cellblock, where I pass most of the afternoon looking out the windows of the common area until dinner is called out. And again I have the impression of being unwanted on the table.

The ‘white-heads’ and their offensive tattoos about hate and death to minorities, greet me, and like always I see the hypocrisy of it all.

I've donned a few tattoos myself. It couldn’t be helped and every time I see myself in the mirror I feel disgusted toward the twisted symbols and racist remarks on my skin.

I grew up in an ordinary house, with no good parents and fleeting friends, never developing true bonds and always feeling out of place. I wonder what my so-called friends would say if they saw me now. Cold black eyes, skin-head and a chiseled body that one could only get in prison. As for my personality, I’ve become more and more emphatic and senseless to everything and everyone.

"It’s time!" Shane whispers with excitement. "Finish that shit of a meal and get on with your duties as our most trusted fighter."

"Ok" I reply, making myself ready for the end to come.

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I enter a damp and humid room used for laundry and I'm greeted by a dozen or so spectators yelling at me and my opponent loudly. Instead of focusing on the ‘kid’ to which I do not know the name of I focus on the gray walls that summarize my bland and empty life.

Watching the shadow-play of lights and madness filling the walls I wait for the start signal to come and sure enough, a booming voice startles me back to reality.

"We've been waiting for this for over a week haven't we yall?" Say’s the fattest and most disgusting human I've ever had the displeasure of knowing, the prison chief deputy O’hare. I snap out of my daydreaming as he yells. "Come’on boy’s today yall fight for thirty packs of cigarettes and two get out of jail free cards."

He laughs hard at his subpar joke, while I think about how my life is worth thirty packs of cigarettes and the commodity of being able to beat someone twice to a pulp, without going to solitary confinement for a month or two.

Looking at both, he signals us with his hand.

"Ready!?" he shouts "GO!!"

I automatically lift my arms as I approach the boy who is by no means skinny nor short.

I try a kick to his lower body but get countered on account of the pain in my sides. He launches a flurry of punches that hit my arms, some even landing on my face.

Out of desperation I swing my right fist and land a direct hit on his temple. He sways backward's and I lose no time in getting closer to finish him off, but unfortunately, he regains his composure right afterward's and I am forced to step back.

He keeps me at bay with his longer reach and bulkier physical frame, but I still land another punch, this time square on the chin and make him go to the floor.

I hear the roar of madness from everyone around me and I try to only focus on the kid and how he is trying desperately to get up as if had his strings cut out.

While watching the scene with a calm mind I sweat profusely and feel tired. My body sluggish as I close my fists to deliver my opponent rest.

Making my mind up I make a final charge towards him but as I am getting closer at a fast speed, I see something shiny slide through the floor.

By the time I reach him my inertia and my tired condition make me almost fall on top of him as I try to retreat, at the same time, I see him clawing at the homemade knife and pick it up.

As I extend my fist in a hurry desperate to knock my opponent out cold before he has time to use the razor, I feel something I know all too well penetrate my throat.

I feel something warm and at the same time cold pouring through my neck. 'So this is death, this is were it all ends, years and years of my life doing nothing fruitful, followed by twenty seconds or less of brawling... To let it end here...' Gasping for breath I feel everything leaving me, my strength, my will, and my very self, all being replaced by cold and numbing darkness...

Infinite Darkness....

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After an undefined amount of time, I am awoken only to realize I am able to think and sense my surrounding but not move my body. Panicking I try to open my eyes but I don’t seem to have any as I am totally deprived of my senses.

Just me wondering this endless void of darkness.

No penitence and no paradise. No more yells from crazy driven, alcohol-fueled middle-aged men. And most important, no pain...

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After countless thoughts go through my mind for what I couldn't say to be minutes, hours, years or even eons, I feel for the first time something else other than me in this void, an anxious feeling wells within me and I try to stir myself away from this 'something' slowly making its way towards me. Capable of awakening a primal fear and obedience within me that didn't exist before.

Madness resurfaces and I try to escape by any means, but all reaching the same conclusion of pointlessness as before.

 Then, from the void, I hear ‘IT’ calling me...