Inside of Prison Walls

It is like the world outside halted when that hammer came down and 7 years was proclaimed by the man wearing the white curly wig. The twisting of his greying moustache had been annoying me throughout the whole trial, now it annoyed me that much more. I wondered if he knew what he was doing as he slammed down the hammer with such force, I even questioned if his mind harboured any remorse toward me. A life was to be solidified in time for the best part of 5 years serving, a little harsh in my view, but then who was I to question. In hindsight I concur that I deserved to serve these years incarcerated, if not maybe 2 years more. Even now as I write I feel guilty for ever feeling the way I did when 7 years was announced; but at the time my selflessness was not evident. So many thoughts streamed through my 17 year old brain, so many emotions pent up inside played tricks with my mind. 7 years? Was this a conspiracy? That jury that found me guilty of attempted murder, really? Did I really look like a person, a child, that deranged to want to kill somebody for looking at me funny? Fighting was my forte and I was one of the best at it for my age, I just did not realise the consequences would ruin the lives of two young men; for that, I am truly sorry.
My mother's hand was pressed firm against the trucks bulletproof window, trying to locate the warmth of my own as I watched my family weep for me. It was not the fear of prison I cried about, I had already served 11 months in Feltham, it was the steadfast look on my father's face. No emotion would crinkle the contours of this man's face, but his eyes showed the pain, showed the disappointment. This is why I cried. The knowledge he had given me, the physical strength he blessed me with, the educated approach on life he tried so fastidiously to enlighten me with. I broke his heart with my actions; he thought I would never know, but I did, I still do. The rest of my family waved uneasily as the van began its life changing journey to the time freezing abyss that I would call home for a further 3 and a half years. The small window framed my family cuddling as their figures turned to nothing more than silhouettes in the sunshine as we turned left, but in my head, that view was never going to leave me. I remember one of the escorts changing the radio station and my favourite song of the year 2000 was playing 'Flowers', UK Garage. It saddened me. I thought of my younger brothers at home with my cousin. I prayed for redemption through their achievements, I hoped they would see our family broken with the pain of me being imprisoned, I prayed that they would never follow in my footsteps.
It is amazing how things changed as I walked back into the prison with a smile that to this day I am embarrassed about. I smiled as if the thought of 7 years did not frighten or worry me. Any sign of weakness would be greeted with both a trip to the Healthcare unit for fear of suicide and retribution of other inmates that would feed on my frailty. So I walked amongst other condemned youths head held high in an emotional masquerade, the whispers of 7 years from fearful kids contributing to my unwanted imbibe. They could never know of the turmoil inside for presence and reputation was paramount here. I sat down in the corner by the TV whilst the prisoners discussed the implications of my fate, I knew they were doing it, but I wanted them to. I have always been a survivor and today was no different. That is when the only comedian to defy the logistics of the Heron Wing infrastructure brought his medium sized frame over to me, everyone watched in silence. I had to play this right, I had to or the next 3 and a half years was going to be a big problem. Why now? Not today, been a bad day and I am more likely to cuddle you and burst into tears than anything else! Compose yourself son, breathe. I remember these thoughts as clear as crystal.
"Problem?" I asked loudly. I still laugh at the emotion behind it today, my voice was course and crackly, like I had been crying!

"No" He replied. His voice was annoyingly confident and his smile was as if he looked straight through me into my heart and saw my whole being frightened and shaking at the prospect of 7 years in this hell hole.

I stood up and looked at him directly in the eye. He did not flinch and I thought I was a scary guy, reputed on the wing as one of the hardest prisoners on the juvenile side of the prison. Then he did something very unexpected:

I watched the movement of his shoulders as he breathed heavily, they moved rhythmically and I noticed no signs of sharp movement. All of a sudden he pulled out the biggest knife I had seen in Feltham, flick blade and perfectly sharpened. Before he could raise his hand that clenched the handle tight enough to show the formation of veins on is hand, I hit him square in the face. He landed on the pool table, bleeding and out cold. This was my moment. You have to do something now to show that you are still the one people should respect. Do not cry, do not go crazy, stay composed and make the facade last a little longer and you are home free.

I left him on the pool table and walked back to the TV corner, keeping the movement of the other prisoners in my peripherals. I turned the volume up on Eastenders and put my feet on the table, I looked cool. Inside I was bleeding, crying out for someone to save me from this lie. It was this lie that had got me into this position in the first place. Things seemed to slow down. I saw the guards running to the attention of the knife wielding prisoner, moving him into the recovery position. Outside the sun was setting across the vast gardens, the heat shimmering up from the dancing grass. The huge bay windows were interrupted by the metal poles that secured our existence to one wing. Looking through them reminded me of what was happening here. I was in a new world now, new rules and new behaviour. I was in, that was out. Not forever. The person inside was beautiful, the person outside had problems. It is ironic to think that out here, the inside person will be loved and appreciated. In there, that person would have been torn to pieces. Sometimes I remember the pain of pretending, but pretending made it easier. Does that make me a bad person for fearing my surroundings? I hope not.