I’m guilty and I accept whatever punishments I’m given. I may never see the ones I loved, but all that I loved are long gone. Life in prison isn’t so bad if you have nothing to go back for, or so I thought.
Evidentially some prisons are harsher than others. If the judge feels my crime is worth harsher punishments, I might have a harsh prison. I must have done something bad then.
In cuffs I walk along the officer who escorts me to the vehicle. I was only two streets from the Floyd county jail, but that wasn’t my destination. We drove out of my home town where I’d lived for 17 years. We arrived in Clarksville after seven hours of driving and I wish I never had to leave the car.
We walked into the long and plain white building. On the top of the steel door read “Clarksville psychotic rehab” The fucker gave me forty years in this shit whole. He stated that the way in which the victim had been killed was so gruesome that I should go somewhere to be treated and if I were treated or “healed”, as he put it, then I could go to a regular jail.
The officer escorted me to a locked gate which was unlocked by an old lady. He handed me over to her and I followed her. She had me fill out multiple documents. I was then tested for over two hours. Just being in there made me feel insane, in which I apparently was. I was given shots, asked questions, and observed. After this I was escorted to my bed. Each room contained two “bunk mates”. The room had a two beds and a metal table nailed to the floor. The bright white room and the white lights nearly blinded me. I couldn’t help but sleep for long periods, because of the head throbbing effects of the dull room.
My bunk mate’s name was Maurice, a middle aged druggy, who constantly mumbled to himself and never spoke to me. I would sit for hours speaking to Maurice, since he couldn’t respond and probably never knew what I was saying. I told him my life story, my mistakes, and even sometimes when I was angry I would just tell him that I hated him, because I knew it wouldn’t bother him.
I soon found myself staring at the walls and repeating sentences and calling out to whomever I thought I was talking to. The plain environment and the constant medication made me more insane than before. No one was there to help me get better, even after I accepted that I had problems. I was willing to advance my lifestyle and be a better person, but no one was willing to reach for my hand and pull me out from drowning. Every time I went back to court, I would stutter and not know what to say. The judge constantly told me that I was getting better. I felt good after a couple of visits, thinking he believed me, but then I realized he just didn’t want me to get worse.
I now accepted that my life was going nowhere. Maurice himself was better improved than me. I had switched places with the dumb bastard. That insanity center made more insane than ever. I accepted I was at a permanent stop light. There was nothing more pushing me to live longer, nothing telling me I had a chance. I knew my life was over, so I made it be.