Forward By Christopher
I pause a moment to take in those around me. Old souls whose faces carry deep lines etched by the hand of time. Within this sea of humans are the young and agile moving about without a care or a worry, their sentence a mere inconvenience in their lives.
Most of the time it’s the young crowd that gets to go home. Released through the ever spinning door of incarceration, but truly not free. They will return. Back as a statistic for time has wizened me to this fact.
Last Thursday a girl from my hometown who has been doing time just a little longer than me hung herself. She didn’t die here because ironically it’s against policy for suicides to actually die here. But, officers talk, gossip gets around, and by midafternoon we all knew she was in fact gone. Amazingly she ended her life in the most secure unit on the grounds, segregation. Just goes to show how invisible we all are to the correction officers tasked with watching us. Suicide is tricky on the mind though, triggering memories so far down I forgot their existence.