*A version of this essay first appeared in Minutes Before Six

I grumbled to myself as my eyes panned the cellblock.

All around me chaos reigned. Dominoes clacked against steel tabletops and conversations competed for supremacy as each man shouted over the next.

After three decades in prison I have grown numb on the inside. I’ve witnessed men swan dive from high railings head first to the concrete below. Anything than to have served a life sentence in this Purgatory World. Tragic? I suppose, but I can’t change it. Eventually the madness takes on the form of background static and the conscious mind washes its hands of it all.

So on a sweltering day back when American troops hunted Weapons of Mass Destruction, I’d had enough. I needed a break.

I wove my way through the throngs of convicts and the incessant percussion of steel and flesh. I jerked open the heavy door to cell 168, tugged off my T-shirt and threw myself onto my bunk.

The small floor fan rattled within the heat. I had saved for a month scrubbing food trays in the kitchen to earn 17 dollars for that damned fan. At 12 inches in height, all it did was convert my tiny concrete tomb into a convection oven. I laid staring at the dusty ceiling.

My eyes finally closed. I had all but forgotten about the heat when something thumped. Prison has a heartbeat of sounds and like a beating heart anything out of rhythm stands out.

I sat up. I rubbed at my eyes and the world splintered back into focus.

Another thump. Except this time I was sure I had actually heard it. Something thumped against the wall as if someone in the cell beside mine had shoved a heavy slab of meat. “What the hell is going on?” I said aloud.

I clicked open the cell door muttering to myself. Whatever was going on in the cell next door, I had thought, better be good.

I peered through the slit window and what I witnessed stopped me in my tracks.

Two burly men punched at my 18 year old neighbor, kicked him in the groin, and threw him up against the wall. His nose gushed red.

“Shit,” I said. “They’re robbing him.”

In the free world, home invasion, when caught in progress, brings the cavalry. Police screech to a halt guns drawn and the perp gets arrested if not shot. In prison, there is no cavalry.

I lingered outside the door for what felt like an eternity. Someone inside the cell screamed. I wanted to intervene but it wasn’t my place to do so. I have learned it is wise to honor prison’s unwritten commandments. Thou shalt not stick thy nose into other people’s business.

More screaming. Something bashed into the door. I dared another glance through the window.

I noticed one of the men now laid unconscious on the floor. The other assailant’s chest heaved and his foot stumbled. Our eyes met, the kid and I, and he gave me a nod. I felt a grin crack across my face.

I went back to my cell.

I repositioned the floor fan in hopes of cool air before cursing its existence. Eventually the thumps ceased. I wondered who won the fight but realized it didn’t matter — nothing here matters. My eyes finally closed.

Alone in my cell I slept.


*Writing from prison is a difficult endeavor and it isn’t always possible to get a post up in a timely manner. For those who haven’t already subscribed, click on subscribe and whenever I post something new you’ll receive an email notice. I will soon return to a more regular posting schedule. Thank you so much for your devoted readership! I write for you. —Christopher