Night's Solace

Received Honorable Mention in the February 2008 "History Contest"

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“He is a man buried alive; to be dug out in the slow round of years; and in the mean time dead to everything but torturing anxieties and horrible despair.”

- Charles Dickens, American Notes for General Circulation

Philadelphia, PA
August 12, 1830


Sure, I had seen the massive structure, the fortress sitting atop Cherry Hill. Who hadn’t? Who in Philadelphia hadn’t trekked up the hill to sneak a couple peeks when it was being constructed, wondering how big it would be and what would really be going on inside the walls, which seemed to get taller and taller each day? And it wasn’t only us thieves who were fascinated by the impressive building springing up in the cherry orchard, and the fact that it was unlike any other structure in America with its medieval façade. All the well-to-do strolled by to examine it as well – probably even more than us, since they knew they would never spend a day of their lives locked inside.

Floating through the city had been rumors and discussions about what an architectural masterpiece the building would be, and not just because of its intimidating exterior. Word was that some English architect named John Haviland had designed and planned the whole thing, including some amazing mechanical innovations on the inside, too. Many of them seemed somewhat impossible, or perhaps slightly exaggerated as word of mouth made its way around Philadelphia. But even if the rumors were only partly true, this place would genuinely be a tribute to our modern times, though you wouldn’t guess it from its outside appearance.

It’s an ominous castle that glares at the bustling city below as a silent and powerful warning not to break the law. With its thick wooden door, corner guard towers, and walls reaching probably 60 feet high, it’s a threatening and mean-looking building. Jimmy and I had marveled at it from the farmlands that covered the landscape between the massive new prison and the modern city, always saying that we’d never end up in there. We were too smart and too fast, too clever and too careful. Besides, we weren’t really doing anything that bad, not like we were murderers or something.

Anyway, that was his stupid idea to try to steal those horses. I told him it wasn’t the right time. Too many people still around, and I just had a bad feeling. But he swore it would be fine, said he knew someone in Northumberland County that would give us good money for them. They were strong looking horses and probably would’ve been worth a good amount, but something just seemed wrong that day, like a thousand eyes were on us at all times. Jimmy should’ve listened to me, or I should’ve walked away. I should have just walked away.

I don’t know how Jimmy didn’t get caught when they pounced on us. We had barely started our getaway when I heard him yell my name. He must have seen them just as they were grabbing me, but I couldn’t do anything by that point. It was too late. They had me, and I knew it. Jimmy knew it, too, and ran off across town, probably the fastest he ever ran in his life. And now Jimmy’s out there somewhere enjoying himself, having a drink and celebrating his freedom; while I’m in this prison, awaiting my fate and wondering what lies ahead.

I can barely keep track of everything that’s happened since they brought me in here. It’s all so carefully mapped out, so perfectly orchestrated: step one, step two, step three. You have to be impressed with it all, really, when you think about how things were run at the Walnut or Arch Street prisons. I mean, not that I know firsthand, but there were plenty of stories that Jimmy had told me, things he heard from others that had had the misfortune of spending time at those places.

Let’s see, now, how has this all progressed so far this morning? I have to try to keep it straight, even though it’s all a bit overwhelming. Jimmy will want to hear about this when I’m out. I know he’s going to want all the stories, and it’ll be best if I can start from the beginning, from the moment I arrived within the daunting walls that he managed to avoid. So, I’ll remember the basics.

First, the Warden examined me. He’s a stern fellow, but not mean, just disciplined and kind of rigid. What did he say his name was? Sam something… yes, Samuel Wood. And then I was taken to a room where they wrote down all my physical traits: sex, male; color, white; height, 5’8”; weight, 162; eyes, green; hair, brown. They even included a couple notes about that scar above my eye and the one on my knee. All my physical characteristics so carefully recorded. Then they cut my hair real short, my straggly brown curls lying in neat piles on the floor. Off to the next little room where I was given a warm bath, and my whole body was thoroughly cleansed. And the last room was where they clothed me in my new uniform.

Quite a busy morning thus far, and I’m sure I’ll forget some of this stuff when I’m telling Jimmy, but as long as I can remember the basics, he’ll be happy. I thought it would be worse in here. I thought there would be yelling and harsh treatment from the moment I was surrounded by these massive walls. It’s kind of what you’d expect by the looks of this place from the outside, but it hasn’t really been that bad. Of course, I’m probably getting a little ahead of myself. God knows what awaits me for the next two years and how I’ll be treated when I’m amongst the other prisoners… not even sure I want to think about that right now. Besides, it seems like my five-minute wait is up. The few guards that are walking towards me are probably ready to usher me to my cell.

But wait, now what are they doing? What’s that he has in his hand? They’re placing a hood over my head? I can hear pieces of conversations all around me, but I can’t focus on what they’re saying. I don’t even care what they’re saying. I’m defiantly shaking my head from side to side. No, I don’t want this on me. Get this thing off of me! I mutter a “no” from beneath the hood, but it’s muffled and gets lost in the sound of our footsteps.

We’ve started walking somewhere. I can’t see where I’m going, but I know we’ve left the little building I was in and gone outside. I can feel the strong August sun that I know is shining brightly overhead, even though it’s black as midnight inside this hood. And hot as hell, too. Where are they taking me? My senses are all out of whack in this world of darkness. The hot and sticky summer air overpowers my nostrils, as I’m tripping on the uneven dirt below my feet. We’re walking at a slow and steady pace, but I feel like running, taking off in any direction and pulling this sack off my head. I feel as if I have a heavy weight on my chest, my breaths shallow and rapid as I fight for my next inhalation of moist strangled oxygen. Where the hell am I going? My body moves forward, yet I feel as if I’m going sideways, or traveling in circles. Why must I wear this damn hood when I’m already inside these great stone walls?

It feels like we’ve been walking forever, even though I’m sure we haven’t traveled that far at all. I don’t know what direction I’m going in; don’t know how many guards are surrounding me right now. All I know is I can only see darkness, even though I can still feel the summer sun beating down on my back. Sweat slowly drips from my forehead and runs downs my face and neck, as my heart continues to pound in my chest. Please let’s quickly get to wherever we’re going. I don’t care where it is at this point as long as this hood comes off. Nothing can be worse than this hot dark world where everything feels upside down and backwards.

Wait, we’re slowing down. What’s that creaking sound? A few more steps and I hear a guard tell me to lower my head and go inside, placing his hand on the top of my head to guide me. As I step in, I’m bombarded with a dense humidity that just hangs in the air. This must be it. This must be my new home for the next two years.

Finally, the guard is lifting the hood off my head. It’s a welcome release. Even though the air is thick and hot, at least I can see the bright sunlight as it peers through the opening in the high ceiling. Looking around, I see my new bed and my new nightstand, my own toilet and water tap. The walls are tall and white, built with the same huge, impenetrable stones Jimmy and I saw on the outside, no doubt. And the vaulted ceiling rises above as if I’m in some kind of bizarre church, complete with God’s light shining down upon me.

But there’s no front door? No window or iron bars at the front of the cell? Just a little slot cut out and no light shining through it. There must be a door on the other side of that wall, but how did I get in here? Oh, wait, there’s a door in the back of my cell. My senses are all still messed up from that damn hood, but things seem to be coming into focus now. Yeah, a door in the back that seems to lead to my own little outdoor space. Damn, even that seems to have high walls surrounding it, but there’ll be nothing but fresh air and blue skies above when I get out there.

For the first time, I see one of the guards that escorted me in here, and he looks like he’s not much older than me. He’s rambling on about something, asks me to take a seat on the bed. Oh, do I really need to answer these questions about my life and the things I’ve done? I mean, I haven’t lived that bad of a life, not compared to some of the other people that are probably in here. Well, if I give him a quick description with a few highlights, I’m sure it’ll do. What does it matter if it’s accurate or not, I’m in here now. Whether that was the first time I stole something or the fifty-first time, they’ve got me. So, who cares if I lie a little to the guard to try to speed things up here, maybe plead my case a bit. Maybe if he thinks that I just had a little slip-up, that I just made one mistake, he’ll help me out a little. Maybe I won’t be in here for as long, or maybe I can have some benefits that the other prisoners in here don’t have.

Or maybe not. After sharing my revised personal story, the guard seems to be providing a summary of my crime and sentence in the same strict, cold manner that he’s spoken in all along. Well, no matter. I know what I did and why I’m here, and the guard’s summary isn’t helping me any.

Ah, here we go. This is what I’ve been waiting for: the rules of the penitentiary, the way things work around here, what I can expect for the next couple years. I was beginning to think that he would leave me in here wondering about all this. But wait. Am I hearing him correctly? No contact with anyone? I’m never to leave my cell and see other prisoners? I’ll live alone in here, work alone in here, eat alone in here. I’ll have half an hour in my exercise yard each day to walk around and stretch out a bit, get some fresh air, but only by myself, surrounded by more walls that seem to reach ten feet high. My job will be to make shoes at the workbench in my cell, by myself. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner will be brought to me by the guards, pushed through that slot I saw in the front wall, so that I can eat all alone in my cell. I can’t have visitors. I can’t really talk to anyone. The bible lying near me on the bed is the only book I’m permitted to read. I’m not allowed to speak or yell, not even allowed to sing. I must remain in my cell, quiet at all times, to think about my crime; to ask for God’s forgiveness; to mend my ways where I have gone astray; to become penitent.

Is this real? He’s telling me all of this without smiling, without a hint of sarcasm or laughter. I’m waiting for the guard to tell me that he’s joking; or that it will only be like this for a few days or weeks; or that in a month, I’ll be mingling with the other criminals who are passing some time here.

Glancing around my new home, I realize that he’s not joking at all. The rumors floating around the city had been true. This is why I have my own supply of fresh water from a tap. This is why there’s a central heating system, newly and specifically invented to warm these cold stone walls during the coming winter months. This is why I have my own flushing toilet when President Jackson doesn’t even have running water in the White House. And this is why the space is fairly large, considering it’s a prison cell. I have to admit that I thought it would be smaller, but if I’m not to leave here for two years, then it must be large enough to allow me to work, sleep, eat, and generally live all in the same place.

As my mind spins with all this information, I know my eyes must appear glazed and distant, because the guard is trying to catch my attention again as he finishes up his speech. I’m nodding my head to him, as if I understand everything, as if it all makes sense to me, but I’m still stunned and sitting listless on the bed.

Having completed his duties, the guard leaves me alone in my cell, walking through the back door and closing it behind him to join the other guards that were waiting outside. The white walls perfectly enclose me in their unbroken stretch of solid stone. Little bits of light streaming through the round circle in the ceiling provide a slight hope that there is still a world outside even though I can’t see it. That world is certainly something to look forward to, and perhaps the only thing for right now.

No, this is just the initial shock of it all. Of course it’s going to be difficult and strange at first. I’m sure it will get easier as it goes along. Days will turn into weeks, months – hell, two years will probably pass in no time. It all just seems strange now, because it’s totally different from everything I know, that’s all.

But, man, it’s so quiet in here. There’s no noise. Absolutely not a single sound. The silence itself is bombarding my ears like the sound of a hundred yelling people would. You can’t even hear anyone walking. There must be guards outside the cells. Is there a corridor on the other side of that food slot? Are there other cells? I don’t know where I am in this massive place or how it’s even structured. All I know are these four walls, this tomb that I’m in... silent tomb.

Think clearly, Tom. This is all just a state of disbelief. Everything seems upside down and backwards, just like when they put that hood on you. That’s all it is. It will all get easier as it becomes more familiar. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll probably be laughing about this whole thing soon. Silly me freaked out at first by silence. Ha ha. Wait ‘til I tell Jimmy about this... in two years?

It’s shock. It’s just initial shock. I’ll lie on the bed for a bit and calm down. That’ll help. Deep breaths, even though this heavy, humid air doesn’t do much to relax the senses. It’s oppressive, like an invisible wool blanket that’s just hanging in the cell. Through the hole in the ceiling, I can see the blue skies outside, just a snippet of their cloudless beauty, and a beam of sunlight piercing my bleak surroundings.

I wonder what Jimmy’s doing right now. I wonder if he’s thinking about how I’m in here and he’s not. Damn, why did I go along with it? Why didn’t I trust my instincts and tell him it was a bad idea? The horses would have been there the next day, or the day after that. It was stupid to try to rush the whole thing. But he was so insistent that it had to be done that day. The guy in Northumberland needed the horses as soon as possible, and the sooner he got them, the more we’d get paid. That was the deal. Hell, Jimmy probably went back the next day and stole them anyway. Maybe when he did, he got caught, too. Maybe he didn’t get away that time. Maybe he’ll be coming in here tomorrow or next week, locked away in his own pensive grave of stone. And I wouldn’t even know if he were in here; wouldn’t know if he were on the other side of that wall, for cryin’ out loud.

I can’t just lie here. I need to pace, need to move around or something, walk the length of the cell a few times. I wish the August humidity would lighten up a bit. Never was a fan of the dead of summer, but fall will be here soon. The cooler temperatures outside will bring cooler air inside here, too. And that will definitely be better. See, I’ve found something to look forward to already.

But the silence is unbelievable, torturous. The only sound I hear is my own muffled footsteps as I walk up and down the cell, up and down, a slight shuffle, nothing more. How can you not hear anything in a place this large? It seems impossible. I’m sure I’ll get used to it eventually, but right now, I feel as if it will make me go mad. I wish the guard would come back in here. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so brief when I recounted my life’s tale. I should have explained everything, every detail I could think of, instead of being annoyed at his questions. If I had spoken for longer, he would have stayed longer. Sure, he would have left eventually, but I could have delayed the inevitable at least for a little while.

I need to stop pacing and lie down again. The pacing is making it all worse. My heart is pounding again. My mind is swirling too fast. That’s it, Tom. Just lie down for a bit and try to relax, close your eyes. The days will get easier; will start to go by more quickly. The guard said I would have work to do tomorrow, that they would bring all the things I needed to start my trade. That will help pass the time, because it will give me something to do besides pace and sit, pace and sit. But that’s tomorrow. What do I do to pass time now?

Think about something fun, one of the great times you and Jimmy and the gang had. Yeah, that’s it. There were lots of great times. All I have to do is place myself back in any of those situations, let the memories consume me, and I’ll have a mental escape. Drown out the pervasive silence of the cell with the recollection of noisy bars, beautiful women, and intoxicating ale. They were good times. Charlie telling his jokes and the stories from his brother in Boston. Jimmy and John always fighting over who got to talk to Mary when she brought over the next round of drinks. Ha ha. Yeah, those guys were always fun.

But I’ve made the mistake of opening my eyes to see the vaulted white ceiling staring back down at me. As I feel the smile slowly shrink from my face, the unbearable silence comes back to haunt and tease my senses. I’m not with Jimmy and the guys at all; I’m still locked within four walls that are painted in loneliness and sealed in misery.


Week One

It’s Sunday, and they won’t let me work. Won’t let me work, because it’s the day of rest. I can’t stand this. At least working on the shoes helps me to focus on something other than being trapped in this cell. Work is an escape, something to look forward to; something to keep my mind and hands occupied; something to make sounds that break apart the interminable silence. I can’t just sit here and think anymore. The day feels so long when I can’t work. Minutes feel like hours, and that damn silence is overpowering. The dead make more noise in a cemetery, and they’re probably happier, too. Death would certainly be better than this.

I just wish I could talk to someone, just for a little while even. I’m willing to talk about anything, don’t care what it is, as long as I can interact with another human being. The guards that bring the food won’t talk to you. And you can’t even hear them coming. How is that possible? And I’ve listened, too, when I know it’s getting close to that time, to try to hear his footsteps before the little door opens and the tray of food is slid through. But there’s never a sound. Never a damn sound! It’s as if my meals are being brought to me by soulless phantoms that cannot speak.

I tried this morning. I begged him to come in and talk to me for a little while, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t say anything. He just brought the food and closed the little slot as he walked on to the next cell. How can you all just leave me in here to waste away? I know I’m a prisoner. I know I’ve made mistakes and that’s why I’m here, but how can you think this is all to benefit me? None of you seem mean or cruel in spirit, perhaps just misguided. Come in and talk to me, and I will explain the ramifications of your actions and what you’re really doing to me. I promise to remain calm. We’ll have a pleasant discussion, you’ll see. Just an hour, or half an hour, is all I’m asking for. Please.

The sun is still shining brightly, as a few of its rays peek into my dim cell. Looking up to the sky through the circular opening, I can’t help but wonder if God is watching me right now. Is He waiting to see how long I can last in here? Is He laughing at my torment and isolation? Maybe you’re a sadistic bastard just like the ones that run this place. Maybe you should spend more time taking care of the real problems in this world instead of wasting your time on petty thieves like me. I don’t feel any guidance or enlightenment from you. Just a distant sound of what I think to be your maniacal laughter, like I’m a side show for your entertainment, locked in my own little cage for your viewing pleasure. Is that how it works, God? Is that my purpose? Are you even listening to me?! No, you’re not, because you’ve abandoned me here. Left me to the solitude with your contemptuous eye peering down on me. And this is how it goes.

I’m pacing and pacing, back and forth, up and down the cell. When will this day finally end? I just want to sleep, wake up and have it be tomorrow when I can work again. I need a distraction, something to interrupt and dismantle all these thoughts. All the time, nothing but thinking and more thinking, staring at these walls, staring at the ceiling, staring at the floor, then back to the walls. Pacing the length of the cell, then lying on the bed, then getting up and pacing some more. I can’t take it much longer. If only I could sleep today, just for a little while, a nap to pass the time. But it’s hot in here, and my breathing feels restrained as I inhale the humid air. And my mind... my mind will not stop spinning long enough for me to relax. The more I try to relax, the more anxious I become.

One of the guards will be bringing dinner soon, I’m sure. Then maybe I can ask him if he would like to come in and visit with me for a little while. Perhaps it will be a different guard than this morning, and he will not so quickly dismiss my pleas for a companion. Maybe he could eat with me, or just sit with me while I consume my meal, because then I could eat more slowly to make him stay a little longer. He could tell me about what’s been going on in Philadelphia, what the latest rumors and news around town are. Maybe the guard that’s bringing dinner can be a kind of friend, and no one else would have to know. It could be our secret. And even if Warden Wood found out, could the guard really get in that much trouble? I mean, he’s just taking a little pity on a prisoner – not like he’s letting me out or anything. He’s just chatting with me. Where’s the harm in that? Yes, I’m sure it will be a different guard to serve me dinner this evening, and then we can have a light and fun conversation, just like Jimmy and I would. He can tell me about his life; if he’s married; has any kids; if he likes being here; what he does on the weekends; and where in Philadelphia he lives. Yes, we will have great times together. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? It won’t be so bad in here now. A little dreary, perhaps, and certainly not a paradise, but at least I’ll have someone to talk to from time to time. And then I’ll have something to look forward to, as well.

Ah, that’s it! The sound I’ve been waiting for, as the food slot door is opened. I’m springing to my feet and running to meet my new friend, my companion on the other side. I feel excited and renewed!

Looking through the slot, I see the guard from this morning, with the same expressionless face, as he slides the food through, shuts the little door, and walks away.


Month One

Dear God, please forgive me for the things that I have done. I never thought much of what I did – not that I didn’t realize it was wrong – but I never intended to hurt anybody. I was just trying to make a living, trying to have a few bucks in my pocket. But I see now that it was wrong. I understand why I’m in here, why I’m confined to this cell. And I can see that my getting caught that day was a good thing, because I’ve learned the lesson that you were trying to teach me.

I beg for your forgiveness. On bended knees, with clasped hands, and head bowed, I plead with you to see that I am a changed man; that I take comfort in your words as I read passages from the Bible every day -- or, at least read them as well as I can. I never was much good at reading and writing, but I am trying, Lord. And I promise that I will never steal anything again. When I am once more a free man, I shall commit myself to an honest profession and an honest life. No more drinking. No more philandering. I beg that you hear my words, Lord, and offer your light and grace upon me, so that I may one day join you in your kingdom of peace and tranquility.

I pray to you, my Heavenly Father, to help release me from the torment and melancholy that engulfs me in this place, desolating my spirit and vandalizing my soul. I trust that I did belong in here, that I had to suffer here, so that I could find the righteous path back to you. But now, as you can see, I am penitent. I am remorseful for all that I have done, from the pilfering to the blaspheming. I turn to you, Lord, with my eyes gazing up to heaven, and ask you to deliver me. If the reason for all of this – the solitude, the silence, the despair -- is to help me find my way back to you, and I have done that, then why should I not be set free now? I ask you with deepest humility, what good can come from my remaining in here? Would it not be better if I were back in the city and able to serve you and to show you that I have changed?

I ask you to hear my cries for help, God, as I do not think I can survive in here much longer. The loneliness finds my mind and soul weak, and there are times when I truly feel as if I will go mad. I know the last few weeks have already started to take their toll upon me. My thoughts are sporadic and sometimes nonsensical; and when I looked at my reflection in the mirror yesterday, I hardly recognized the pale man that stared back at me with a sort of vacancy in his eyes.

I feel you watching over me from Heaven; feel your light and radiance wash over me as I speak to you now. I simply ask that you please provide me with the strength I need to face each day in this cell. Lord, please release me from this place soon. I will be true to all that I have promised you, but I beg you to help me get out of here. Please, God, please. With the purest of thoughts and most honest of intentions, I ask you to save me from my own mind as it unravels within these walls. I pray to you, Heavenly Father. I implore you to help me before it is too late. Please help me, oh, God. I beg you to help me. Please help me... please help me... please help me...


Month Four

My name is Thomas Williams, and I am 27 years old. My name is Thomas Williams, and I am 27—no, wait. I am 28 now. Yes, I turned 28 last month, and I didn’t even realize it. No celebration or special moments. Just another day like any other. All the days blur together here, though I know God is counting them for me, staring down on me each day with his bright and steady eye. He must be.

Yes, I am 28 now, God. And I know that you are going to have me released from this cell very soon. You were probably just waiting for my birthday to pass. In this, my new year of life, dear Lord, I promise that I will make great strides to amend the wrongs that I have done. You know this, because we have spoken many times. You know I am true to my word. And that’s why I expect the guards to come and release me any day now, any minute, even.

It feels like such a long time that I have been isolated in this cell, and sometimes it feels as if I will never escape these tall, smooth white walls, not while alive anyway. In utter frustration, I pound on the walls and claw at the floor, even though I know none of it does any good. As if I could break my way through these fortress stones by sheer force or determination.

And the loneliness... I don’t even know the words to describe the incredible and insurmountable loneliness that has overpowered my senses. What profound emptiness invades the soul in a situation like this. I wrap my arms around my body, curl up on my bed, and try to imagine that there is someone here in this frigid coffin with me, someone to make it all seem better. A deranged despair overtakes me, and I feel so alone and frenzied that I wish I could rip the skin off my body, shred it in pieces and leave it in a neat pile on the freezing stone floor, ridding myself of these sensations. Strip them off of me, as if they are woven into my skin. They feel like they’re stitched into every inch of my skin!

I can’t escape the suffocating wretchedness of this desolation, or its strong hands, which wrap around my throat each night as the moon creeps in, leaving me to the darkness and the silence. Every night, the darkness and the silence taunting me, scraping away at me from the inside out. And I can no longer keep myself from crying, when every portion of my mind and every feeling in my body are twisted and mutilated from the tormented anxiety and agonizing gloom; holding my head in my hands as the uncontrollable sobs jerk my whole body. I never knew I could shed so many tears. So many tears and yet no release, no comfort or calming.

I have been holding my breath for months, it seems. To help pass the time, I’ve begun thinking up new scenarios each day, like a little game to play. One day, I think maybe they’ll come in today and tell me that they’ve changed the whole system, and now I’ll be working with and living among the other prisoners. And then the next day, I’ll think, today the guard will bring me my food and tell me that it’s my last meal in this place, because they are ending my sentence early. Though that day has yet to come.

But, oh, when I think of being able to walk through the streets of Philadelphia again; see the beautiful blossoms of spring; hear the sounds of children playing and people laughing... how I miss the sound of happiness. It will be the sweetest sound to break the excruciating silence. Oh, God, I can’t take this anymore! I can’t take it!

No, think clearly, Tom. Dammit, think. I can barely keep my mind from straying anymore, volleying frantically between excruciating thoughts and pleasant daydreams. I need to keep my mind focused. I need to keep things in perspective.

My name is Thomas Williams, and I am 28 years old. My name is Thomas Williams, and I am 28 years old.


Month Six

That man was in my room again last night. He only ever comes when the sun goes down, and I can see the faint outline of him standing in the corner. I find it hard to sleep when I feel his presence around me. I tried asking him again what he wants from me, but he said nothing. He never says anything. I think maybe he is a mute who can somehow make his way in and out of my cell. I was hoping that if he talked to me, I could learn how he is able to come and go, or ask him to take me with him when he left as the sunrise crept in. I’m not sure that he is all that interested in anything I have to say, even though I spoke to him at great lengths last night.

I slowly arose from my bed, as not to scare him, and made my way over to the corner, but he disappeared when I got there. I thought that he had left for the evening, thinking me rude or obtrusive, or perhaps merely taken by surprise at my actions. So, I crawled back into bed and shut my eyes in hopes of sleeping at least briefly.

But he returned a short while later. I awoke to the feeling of someone watching me, intensely staring, and as I glanced over to the corner, he was there again. I asked him why he had left, but he didn’t respond. So, I simply spoke to him quietly about various things. I dare not speak too loudly, for risk that the guards will discover I have someone in here with me. They would never permit it. They’d immediately take him away, and then I wouldn’t be able to figure out how he is able to enter and leave my cell. Perhaps he is another prisoner who can somehow move through the walls. Maybe he is really from the cell next to mine and can only slip out undetected when night falls. Yes, this was my revelation in the early hours of the morning, and I was determined to figure out which side of my cell he came through.

After I had finished breakfast, I pressed myself up against the left wall to try to hear if someone is living in the next cell, or if there even is a cell on the left side of me, but I heard nothing. Did the same on the right side, too. Running my hand down the smooth white walls, ear pressed tight, hoping to catch a sound. But when I was intently listening to the right side, I would think that I heard a sound on the left side, and run across my cell to see what might be happening over there. But it would only be silence. Until I swore I heard a sound from the right side, and off I would run again in the opposite direction, fix my ear to the wall and listen closely. I’m sure I’ve got someone close by. It must be my nightly friend.

I wish he would speak to me, though. It’s hard sometimes to find new things to say when everything here is pretty much the same every day. Still, I look forward to seeing him again tonight. He used to only appear every now and then, but lately he’s been here every night. He’s probably just as bored and lonely as I am. I wonder if he works on making shoes, too, or if he has a different job to do, like weaving. Maybe if we’re both getting out of this place at the same time, we can work together somewhere. I’ve told him about Jimmy and the gang, but it’s hard to tell if he’s interested in meeting them or not. He always just has a blank expression on his face. He’s not as lively as I would like, but someone’s better than no one.

Besides, I don’t think that I want to make him mad in any way. He doesn’t say anything, and he never comes close, but I get the feeling that he’s not the laid-back, easy-going kind. There’s something intimidating about him, even kind of creepy. But I’m sure that’s just because of the way he comes in and out without a sound each night.

I’m happy to talk to him. Maybe I’ll try to somehow get him to explain to me how he gets out of his cell. If he can’t talk, then maybe he can use gestures or something. I wish I could see him during the day, but I know it would be too risky for him to come over when the sun’s shining. You never know when one of the guards may appear, or be listening outside your door.

But he must get cold wandering around at night. These stones lock in a hell of a chill, even with the heating system, and he always looks like he’s barefoot. Maybe he’s barefoot, because it’s quieter that way when he’s creeping from cell to cell. Or maybe I’m mistaken, and he is wearing shoes, but I just couldn’t see them. The thin slices of moonbeams coming through the hole in the ceiling don’t really help to illuminate much in the room.

I wonder if he visits others that are in here. I wonder if he’s figured out how to maneuver around the prison without the guards knowing. Maybe he could go anywhere in this massive building, but chooses to come in here every night because he enjoys my company. Sure, he finds me entertaining and relaxing. And maybe some of the others he visited made too much of a big deal about it, worrying him that the Warden would discover his little escapes.

No, he needs to stay away from those prisoners. If they don’t have the common sense to keep their mouths shut, then I’ll lose my nightly visitor, and I won’t have anyone to talk to again. And if the Warden were to find out about his trips to other cells, there would certainly be more stringent rules and surveillance for all of us!

But I’m sure he knows better than to visit those kinds of prisoners. That’s why he’s sticking with me, because I can keep a secret. I can pretend like nothing’s going on at all, even if I were directly questioned by Warden Samuel Wood himself. "Visitor? What visitor? What are you talking about? How could I ever have a visitor in my cell? No one can come in or out of here. If there were a way out, don’t you think I would have left by now?" It would almost be too easy, really, and oh how foolish the Warden and his guards would look.

But my new friend should have a name if we’re going to be chatting every night. And since he cannot or will not speak to me, then I will have to invent one for him. Hmm... what shall I call him? Ah, Night is a perfect name. It’s not typical, but then he is not a typical man. Yes, Night. I shall ask him when he comes to visit this evening if that name pleases him. And I will be sure to mention his visiting of the other prisoners and warn him of the potential consequences. No doubt he will thank me with a nod or a smile for having thought so much of this through. And I, of course, will tell him that it’s no problem. "No problem at all, Night. Just a few thoughts that had occurred to me today while I was working on my shoes."


Year One

Hello, Night. I’m so pleased to see you this evening. A great deal happened here today that I want to tell you about. Not sure if you could hear anything through the walls, but it was quite an interesting string of events.

It seems that the guards have been keeping a rather watchful eye upon me for the last several months, though I realized nothing of the sort. A guard came by to let me outside for my usual half hour of exercise, but I was not at all in the spirit of walking around in the blazing August sun. He insisted that I come outside with him; told me to stop sitting there on the bed, rocking back and forth, and incessantly picking the skin from my fingers. I stopped rocking, as I hadn’t realized that I was even doing it, looked up at him, and calmly explained that toiling all day on those shoes has broken apart my skin with small cuts and hangnails, and that I’m sure I feel something under my skin, but I’m trying to separate it all so that I can reach it. He just looked at me with a bewildered stare, as if he couldn’t understand what I was saying. I reassured him that this would not affect my working on the shoes tomorrow – just in case he thought me lame from such cuts – and explained that since it was Sunday, and I was not allowed to work anyway, that I would tend to the business of separating my skin and picking out that which should not be there.

He attempted a couple more times to drag me from my cell with strict orders and forceful tones, but I reiterated that I had no intention of spending time in the sun today. And you know what they’re like, Night. They will not actually pull you outside, or beat you for not listening, because they refrain from physical abuse here. They are strict, but still kind in many regards, and physical punishments simply will not do.

I suppose I frustrated the poor man, because he then left me, looking completely confounded by the whole situation. I smiled graciously at him as he was shutting the back door, because I was truly not trying to be difficult at all, and I know that he is merely attempting to complete his duties as required of him. You know me. I would never be unaccommodating simply for the sake of being so, but it was horribly hot in Philadelphia today, and while the air in my cell was frightfully oppressive, I dare say I thought it better to stay in the confines of my cell than face the blinding and burning rays of the August sun. Yet, I digress.

So, there I was, sitting in my cell, still picking at and tearing off little pieces of skin around my fingernails, when the guard returned with a couple of his guard friends. I suspect that only half an hour or so must have passed since his last visit. I looked toward the open door and the four men standing just outside of it, and I thought that perhaps they were all going to work together to carry me out of the cell and place me in the exercise yard, because you know how determined they can be when they have orders that must be executed.

But, it was a funny thing, I tell you, dear Night, for the manner in which all four guards were staring at me imposed on me a rather strange feeling. I smiled at all of them, because I wanted to make sure that they knew I was friendly and not causing a disturbance by any means. I explained yet again how working on the shoes has given me small cuts on my fingers, and how I was determined today to pry out from under my skin that which should not be in there. Well, I must say that the looks parading across the guards’ faces spoke volumes, and I knew that they still did not understand my intentions. So, I elaborated by saying that perhaps some wood or metal pieces had become wedged underneath my skin, as I work very hard every day, and what better day to alleviate the problem than on Sunday, when I cannot work anyway?

I thought this a reasonable and comprehensible explanation, but it seemed to do little to calm their troubled minds, because they each glanced one to the other with puzzled countenances. I just let out a sigh at this point and returned to the pulling and separating of my skin, since nothing I seemed to do or say made any difference whatsoever.

Then two of the guards walked into my cell and approached me slowly. At this point, I was simply going to tell them that I would spend my appointed time in the exercise yard, because this was becoming quite an inconvenience and disturbance, and I know they’re simply trying to complete their tasks. So, I rose from the bed, but just before I began to speak, I noticed that one of the guards was holding a hood. Yes, Night, that damn hood that they make you wear when you’re brought in here. The first guard told me that they were going to place the hood on me and take me to see the Warden. I asked them, of course, if it was really necessary. I mean, all this for simply not wanting to walk around in the summer sun. It seemed ridiculous. I calmly told them that I would go into the exercise yard, if need be, that it was not my intention to be difficult in any way, and that this all seemed to be some type of misunderstanding. But they muttered something about my having to go see the Warden, and it wasn’t only because of my exercise refusal, and on the hood went.

I found it all so amusing, Night, to have that hood be placed over my head again. I can still recall with such clarity the first time I wore it: seeing nothing but blackness inside, the heat and confusion overpowering my senses. It frightened me so, that strange world into which I was suddenly thrust just so I could be brought to my cell. But this time, it wasn’t frightening at all. No, not at all, and I laughed the whole way to the Warden’s quarters. I heard one of the guards ask his fellow men in a whispered tone why I was laughing. They couldn’t understand what I found so amusing, but it was merely the irony and simplicity of it all. That silly hood is nothing to me now, not after all these months of sitting alone in my cell, having no other soul with whom to speak – well, except you, of course, Night. But it was by happenstance that you appeared, for I spent a great deal of time on my own before you arrived, having conversations with God, with myself, and just generally trying to maintain my sanity. And I thank you greatly for coming along when you did, because I fear I would have completely lost my senses had I not been lucky enough to share your company during the evening hours. A thank you nod to me? Yes, I suppose we have helped each other.

Well, we finally reached Warden Samuel Wood, who looked much the same as I remembered him, and he began asking me various questions. I answered them all to the best of my knowledge, but as he spoke, I noticed the skin around my nails, and became distracted by the open cuts, and so began once again to pick the skin apart. I noticed Warden Wood’s expression when he saw I had seemingly wandered into my own little world. I reassured him, however, that I had heard everything he said and explained for the third time about my cuts and the things underneath my skin, which he did not seem to comprehend either.

The Warden mentioned to me, as well, that it had been noted by a few of the guards that I seemed often to sit atop my bed, rock back and forth, and carry on quiet conversations. As you might well guess, Night, I became rather startled when this was brought to my attention, for what if one of the guards noticed you in my room one night, while peeking through the food slot? And what if they checked your cell and did not see you in there? The Warden kindly reminded me that speaking was not permitted, and that if it continued, my meals would be reduced to teach me a lesson. But I cleverly countered and told Warden Wood that while I was sorry to have spoken aloud, I was merely praying to God each night, as he has helped me in my reformation. And as far as the rocking, it must be a bad habit I have developed recently, as I had not realized that I even do it.

You would have been very proud, had you been there, dear friend. It came out so naturally. I mean, I wasn’t lying about the rocking, because I really don’t notice when I do it, and it is probably just some sort of nervous tick that I have acquired from being secluded in this prison. But the part about the conversations was pure genius. Not that I intended to mock God, mind you, because that is not the case at all, but I’m sure that God understands how important it is that our friendship remain a secret, given the circumstances and all.

Shortly thereafter, I was dismissed, though the Warden said that he would see me soon. The hood was again placed on my head, and I was escorted back to my cell. I’m not sure why I would need to see the Warden, unless they are afraid that I will refuse my daily exercise again. I tell you, Night, it’s simply not worth it. From now on, I will just walk around the yard for a bit, and I advise you to do the same, lest you be put through all of this, as well.


Year One and Two Months

Oh, my! You startled me, my friend. I swear you arrive earlier each night, but no matter. You know I am always pleased to see you. I trust that your day was not too horrific in nature, but then I suppose that is greatly a matter of opinion and perspective, and I certainly do not wish to dispute the manner in which you feel your day progressed.

In any event, I had a rather busy day today, as they yet again came and took me from my cell. There was once a time when I thought the break in the day and the mere change of pace were a rather enjoyable surprise, but it truly has become a trifle burdensome. I mean, really, how am I to work on my shoes when it seems as if I am constantly interrupted by these little outings? Oh, I know what you’re saying, Night. You’re correct. The trips have not been that frequent; it’s not as if it’s an everyday affair, but I feel there should be some sort of prior notice. Or perhaps, I could schedule a time that’s more convenient for me. Yes, I know that sounds preposterous. What time isn’t convenient when you’re simply in a cell all day? But I do have work to do, nonetheless, and I do not like to be focused on my shoes, attempting to make them perfect, as I always do, and then suddenly be faced with several guards holding a hood. But enough of my idle prattling.

So, yes, I was ushered again today to meet with Warden Samuel Wood and the penitentiary’s physician Dr. Jack Burton, where they repeatedly asked me questions and surveyed my actions. It was all most tiresome. Dr. Burton wore a mask of worry and confusion nearly the entire time we spent together, though he made an effort to conceal such emotions. To no avail, I tell you, though, because his feelings were really quite obvious.

Some of their questions and points of discussion seemed rather inane. Asking me how I felt about certain things, and how I regarded various aspects of my life. It was odd, I must say. And then Dr. Burton, of course, inquired about my feelings for God. I told him that I had made amends with God, and that God had absolved me of all of my sins. And such a silly man, the doctor is, Night. He asked me how I knew for certain that God had forgiven me, and at first, I was rather perplexed by his question, since the answer is so readily obvious.

Remaining quiet for a moment, I waited to see if the doctor was going to move on to another topic, but it quickly became clear that he was awaiting my response. So, I looked at him blankly and in a matter-of-fact tone simply stated that I know, because God told me so. He used to speak to me all the time, though I have not really heard from him in probably the last eight or nine months... I tend to lose track of time a bit lately. But he spoke quite clearly to me, in a pleasant voice, while he watched me through the skylight. I’m not sure what sort of answer Dr. Burton was expecting, but his facial expression after receiving my answer seemed a touch disconcerted.

You know, I was more hoping that Warden Wood and the doctor would perhaps share some interesting news from around the city, or maybe a story they had heard. A lighthearted conversation, if you will. But by the end of it all, I was quite fatigued and really wished I had been sitting there speaking with you instead.

My time with them did not end there, though, my friend. Unbeknownst to me, while I sat listening and speaking to the confused Warden and the inquisitive doctor, I began to pick at the cuts on my hands and pry apart the skin again. And it seems that I pulled the skin so fiercely that blood began to trickle, which greatly upset Warden Wood and Dr. Burton. I realized none of this, because I was so incredibly focused on the cuts and torn skin, and had completely blocked out the ramblings of the Warden and the doctor and whatever sentiments they were trying to convey. The mind is truly a powerful thing, Night!

Because of the bleeding, my hands had to be bandaged, which bothers me considerably. How can I work on my shoes with my hands like this? They said that it would only be for a few days, to let the skin heal, and that I was not to remove the bandages. But this is precisely my point about the timing of the visitations. If I had been allowed to finish the shoes on which I was working and then go to visit with Warden Wood and Dr. Burton, then at least that pair would be complete. Instead, the unfinished shoes, lying there on the workbench, will taunt me for the next several days. Mocking me with their imperfection.

I swear to you, it may be more than I can bear. I know I am not to remove the bandages, and I do not delight in disobeying orders, but I feel it may become necessary at some point for the sake of my sanity. You understand what I mean, Night. You always do. ‘Tis why I so enjoy our time together.


Year One and Three Months

I have somewhat depressing news for you, and I trust that you will not be angry with me, for it is all out of my control. You will recall, Night, that over the last few months, I have several times met with Warden Wood and Dr. Burton. Well, I had to join them again today, along with another man named Dr. Taylor, and it seems that I am being removed from here tomorrow.

At first, I thought that my two years had been served already and was quite proud of myself for remaining strong through all of this, and keeping a clear mind. But then Warden Wood told me that I had actually only been in here for a little more than half my sentence, but that I would not be staying in the penitentiary. Of course, I felt proud again, because I thought for sure that the Warden was telling me that I was being released ahead of schedule for being such an exemplary prisoner. It appears, however, that is not the case either.

Tomorrow, Warden Wood will be releasing me into the care of Dr. Edward Taylor, who is the Superintendent of a place called the Asylum that was started by Quakers. It is there that I am now to be kept instead. No, I am not entirely sure why I need to be moved to this new place, but in some ways it seems as if it might be better. I will be allowed to speak to others there, not locked all alone in my room all the time, and Dr. Taylor says that I will be conversing with him fairly often, as well. He told me of the beautiful trees and extensive farmland that surround the Asylum; the fresh air and bright sunlight that enliven the rooms of those who are staying there.

It all comes as a rather splendid surprise, this collection of unexpected circumstances, and I feel most privileged to be a part of the occasion. I overheard Dr. Burton say to Warden Wood something to the effect of “some simply lack the constitution and stability to endure the mental anguish that transpires.” To whom he was referring, however, I am not sure, and figure that it must have been part of a conversation they were having prior to my arrival. To be quite honest, Night, I was so delighted by the news about my own well being that I scarcely cared to discover the origins of the comment.

I realize, dear friend, that this will be the last night that we can speak to each other, and I am very sorry for that, but I do not think they will permit me to take you along. We have had some very enjoyable times, and I feel mournful as well at this sudden turn of events, but we knew this moment would arrive, did we not? Besides, you can visit some of the other prisoners in here. They will be just as glad as I was to speak to you, no doubt.

Why, yes, I suppose I could ask the Warden if he might release you into Dr. Taylor’s care, as well. After all, if the answer is no, then you are no worse off than you are now; but if the answer is yes, then you could accompany me. They just may permit it, you know, given how well I’ve done here and what impressive shoes I’ve made. A brilliant suggestion, Night! I look forward to raising the question with the Warden in a few hours. The new place will be an immense improvement over this prison life, I am certain, and we will surely have good times together there, too.

Ah, the sunrise is slowly painting over the glittering stars. But don’t worry, my dear friend. We will see each other soon, and I tell you that you will like Dr. Taylor. He seems a most agreeable fellow and would no doubt be interested in making your acquaintance.

************************

Note: Although fiction, this story incorporates many of the descriptions, protocols, and principles from Eastern State Penitentiary’s early years. For more information about Eastern State, you can read an article that I've written about it, "Historic Eastern State Penitentiary" ; or visit E.S.P.'s web site at http://www.easternstate.org.