Incarceration

Chapter Ten

When we get to the stairs, my stomach twists into a knot that coils more and more with each step we take, descending into the darkness. Soon, the noise reaches my ears and sends chills shooting up my spine. My heart beats faster. My palms sweat.

The circular room at the bottom of the stairs is dim. Flickering lights send darts of yellow across the concrete floor. Shooting out from the main room are three halls lined with cells on either side and filled with depressed, angry faces.

I'm shoved forward, down the second hallway. The prisoners gather at the window and shout insults while pounding on the wire-lined glass.

The guards shove me in a cell that's about half as big as the ones in Honors with a door twice as thick. It shuts with a loud clang.

I collapse, hitting my head on the bed tucked at the end of my cell. The sounds from outside sink into a dim buzz, unable to penetrate the thick walls and doors of Solitary. Slowly I close my eyes, lose myself, and forget.

There's something wet on my leg. I open my eyes and the new ceiling comes into view. My back hurts from sleeping on the floor, and as I lift my head to see what's sticking to my leg, I realize it's my breakfast, slid in through the flap. I kick my feet and get up quickly, trying to wipe off as much of the food as I can.

The day goes by slower than usual; the most eventful part is playing the game. To pass the time, I pace across my cell, sleep, and think.

Being left alone with your own thoughts is a dangerous thing. Having no one to approve or disapprove of them is even worse. Throughout the day, I longed for something—anything—to happen, for a guard to walk by my cell, for someone to talk to me, for someone to get beat up. I can see how solitary confinement can awaken a small devil inside of you.

Friday comes and goes. I remember the note. There was a small part of me that wanted it to be a warning about something eventful, but it must have been a joke.

A couple more days pass, and I can't sleep anymore. I spend most of my time propped up against the wall of my cell, watching the other wall, counting the flakes of dirt wedged into the cracks of the peeling white paint. When night falls, I get into the habit of holding my breath to force myself to sleep. There is nothing I want less than to be conscious during the long hours of darkness.

The days pass incredibly slowly and I spend most of my time peering out the small window in my cell door at the dull hallway. The rest of the prisoners, like me, spend their days plastered against the window. The menacing faces are always moving, shouting, and taunting. The multitude of sounds results only in a dull roar that is barely heard throughout the semi-soundproof cells. It is an indiscernible commotion that becomes so constant, it soon fades seamlessly into the bleak silence.

The window across from me often produces a threatening figure. His hair is a forest of white tangles and his face is heavily masked by a myriad of tattoos. Whenever his face appears in the window across from me, I immediately remove mine and retreat into my cell.

I recognize him. It's Carter Field, a prisoner who's been in Ranum for several years, crippled under the weight of the game. He was a graffiti artist that had been originally assigned to General Population. However, injustice crafted him into an angry, vengeful person. He was moved to Solitary a year into his sentence and has been here ever since.

Carter has created a legacy for himself. He is easily one of the most feared prisoners at Ranum, finding ways, even from Solitary, to torment other prisoners. Others assigned to cells around him have ended up with severe psychological damage. His methods are one of the many mysteries of Ranum.

The time passes slowly until the guards arrive, get me from my cell, and escort me away. I am taken to the game room, and the pixilated world appears around me.