The night before my release from prison was turbulent and restless, with fear and uncertainty running rampant through my mind. As I lay on my bunk, my lifer celly asleep below me, I watched the shadow of passing guards dancing upon the gray wall of my cell with every rotation of their rounds.
The sounds of other prisoners’ voices reverberated through the unit as they shouted back and forth to one another, trying to score tobacco and drugs. Each shout served as a reminder of the life I was about to leave behind, hopefully forever. As the hours went by, I thought back to the many months I’d spent behind the walls. I had tried to utilize my time wisely, making positive changes in my life by attending counseling and every program the yard had to offer. I read every book I could get my hands on, and when I wasn’t reading or attending class or working out, I was journaling relentlessly, documenting every moment of every day, the sights, sounds, and smells, so as to never forget them.
I hoped the effort I put in would be sufficient to ensure I never had to return to the claustrophobic and dehumanizing existence I had known there.Despite my determination, anxiety raked at my soul, making it impossible to find solace in the impending freedom. The weight of uncertainty pressed upon my chest like heavy bricks as I questioned whether society would give me a second chance. Would they see the effort I had put into bettering myself, into making real internal changes? Or would I forever be defined as a low life and a criminal, irredeemable and unworthy?
In that cell, I found myself praying for a better future – a chance to rebuild my life, mend the relationships I had destroyed, and become a productive member of society. However, the walls seemed to be hugging me, unwilling to let me go as I envisioned the obstacles that awaited me upon my release.Then the morning came, and I left my incarceration behind, a mix of liberation and trepidation flowing through every inch of my being.
When I got home, things were different. I was different for sure, but maybe everything else was different too. I didn’t really know. My mother was waiting for me in the kitchen as my stepfather and I came through the door, the relief that I had made it home worn visibly on her face like an article of clothing.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said. She looked older but just as beautiful as I had remembered her. Still, something had changed. You could hear it in her voice and in the nuanced fluctuations of her tone, but I just couldn’t place exactly what it was. As I walked into the kitchen, I noticed a subtle shift in the atmosphere, an undercurrent of apprehension that lingered in the air. My mother’s embrace, while warm and all-encompassing, had a hint of hesitation in it, as if she was worried to completely accept the fact that I was home, or as if I was only an apparition that was soon to disappear.
I knew, though she wouldn’t admit it, she was wondering how long I would make it this time, and wondering if the next time I go away, I would even come back home at all. Later, I began making phone calls and texting the rest of my family, ready to let them know I was home and ready to accept their scorn if need be. I just wanted to make amends and was ready to do whatever was necessary to do that, so I took the first step.
When I talked to my daughter, her anger was palpable, and I could feel it in her choice of words and in the way that she said them. And all this was over text. I was still too scared to call her, afraid the sound of her voice would cause me to break down and cry.
She told me she needed an apology before she could move on. I gave her one. A real one. Sincere and heartfelt. But I knew she doubted its authenticity. I told her I was home for good, but I knew she didn’t believe me.
The first meal I cooked was unreal: avocado and steak and a fresh green leafy salad with walnuts and almonds and dried cranberries. It was like I’d stolen ambrosia from the kitchen of the gods, took my dinner straight from the plate of Zeus himself. And when I tried to sleep in my bed that night, it was too comfy, the pillow too plush, the sheets silky and foreign on my body.
I lay awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling, my head in a state of awe. The next several days were uneventful, but then something happened, and I woke in the middle of the night from a bad dream, my first one in months. In it, I was back in prison, standing around in the day room, while two men had a verbal disagreement. I watched as the two men spat back and forth with each other angry words and threats of violence, uneasiness brewing in my gut of what the situation could easily turn into.
And then just as I anticipated, the altercation turned physical, and a knife was pulled, a gnarly bit of fence post sharpened to a jagged point.The man with the knife thrust it into the neck of the other man, crimson blood flowing like a river down the front of the man’s chest, soaking his shirt and dripping to the floor. The man with the knife fled.
Then I woke up, sweaty and heart pounding in my chest, lying in my bed at home. Seems that even in this freedom, even at home, safe in my bed, I’m still not quite free from the prison I have known.
Charles Davis
