Here I am, staring at the same four depressing, dull gray walls in solitary confinement for yet another fight. Sometimes I wonder if this particular shade of gray is intentional—another layer of punishment meant to wear a man down. I feel like I do not have anything left to lose at this point in my life.
I have spent the last 15 years here in this old Texas prison for a murder I do not really want to get into much detail about. I will say that I am guilty of the killing, so let us not get this story twisted. I am a bad man and deserve my life here in this fine establishment that the great state of Texas runs. I've made choices that put me here, and I've accepted that this place is where I will die.
I am surprised the judge who sentenced me did not just give me some rope to hang myself with. The world thinks that prison is a more humane thing to do with me. Prison is just a long, drawn-out way to kill someone. To tell the truth, I would have killed myself a long time ago if I did not believe that suicide is the only unforgivable sin you can commit.
The unfortunate reality is that at least once a week, someone dies in here. Just last night, the guards brought a man here to the solitary cells for being a jacker or for waking it in front of a female guard. I heard the guards beating him all night, the bones breaking as they hit him with a mag light. The sounds grew more violent, the inmates' desperate pleas he gave to try to save his life, will stay with me forever. There was a smell of shit, then I heard his bloody gurgle as he gave his last breath. I am sure death was a mercy when he finally passed that next morning. They called the helicopter in the morning to make it appear as if it were an emergency. I know he was dead, and the guards were covering their asses by putting on a show. All I could do was pray and bury my feelings deep down. Prison changes you. It wears you down in ways you do not notice until it is too late. For most of us, it leaves a mark that never really fades.
In solitary confinement, you have a beautiful concrete slab, as said before, the prison staff loves to paint these cells a lovely shade of gray. I think the color is called suicide gray. This cell smells of sewage and blood with a slight undertone of death. The guards take pride in how little they can do to keep you alive. The food is even worse in solitary confinement: a one-slice Bolong and cheese sandwich with no condiments. Not sure why the state of Texas has a problem with mustard. There are so many diverse types of crazies in Prison, I could write a book about it alone, and I am sure someone already has. This should be my last day here with my bible and dark thoughts. They say solitary cells can break a man, so I am lucky that my mind is still together after 14 days. Perhaps the solitary cells did their job, and I have lost my mind, Would I even know if I had lost my mind?
My prison nickname is Soldier. The other prisoners call me that because I served the USA army as a Green Beret and always tell the guys in my pod about war stories. It all seems like yesterday. I am 45 now, an old man in my own right. I stand proud at 6'0" tall, and even in my old age, I am very fit. There is not much else to do in prison, so I work out, and I practice a few forms of martial arts that guys in the pod know. I grew my long black hair out and have cold blue eyes with a cross-shaped scar on my cheek, an old war wound from Iraq. I have been told the only thing I can do right is fight this hellhole, might be the right place for me.
My thoughts kept circling the same worn-out tracks until they finally dragged me into sleep. At least tommarow I can go back to my pod. It was stupid to throw hands over something as simple as respect, but when everything else has been stripped from you, that's the last thing you cling to. The guard woke me before dawn, like he enjoyed reminding me how small my world is. I kept my mouth shut. I wasn't about to earn another stretch in this place—a hell inside the bigger hell.
They sent me back to the block around six. The guys with jobs were already moving out, and everyone else was drifting toward the chow hall. I found my usual group of inmates. Prison has its own version of high school mixed with the military: orders barked at you, uniforms handed out, everyone sorted into their little groups. They dress us in white—maybe so the blood will show better when someone is stabbed its probably just cheaper.
The cliques here make high school look like recess; At least back then, the computer kids didn't literally put a blade in your back for a misunderstanding. I respect the gangs, but I never joined any of them. The ganges in here all go by raises, so they don't like mixing. The people I'm cool with are just that—people. If I ride with you in here, I ride with you for life. The friends. If I kick it with you here, then I will kick it with you for life. The messed-up thing is, most of the people in here are just normal people who make bad choices. Here they are in this fine place with the best that society has to offer.
I grabbed my "gourmet" spoonful of chow hall slop—five-star dining, if you squint hard enough. I scanned the room to find some friendly faces in a sea of hard men. Eventually I found my group, the same men I sit with in Bible study. We're all just trying to carve out something human in a place designed to grind that out of you down. If it wasn't for church, I would have made good with the dark thoughts and just ended my life a long time ago.
There was Joker, a 5'8" Mexican who had full prison sleeve tattoos up and down his whole body. He spent more time with the prison tattoo artist then he spent in school. He was 26 a young man with dark brown skin and brown eyes. There is a look in his eye that he has lived three different lives already. He was doing his time out of some little town called Odessa, Texas. The story goes that he set the city jail on fire because his cousin was locked up there. Never mind that his cousin was about to be bailed out. Never mind that the flames almost took his cousin as well. Joker did not seem bothered by any of that. If anything, I think he liked the fire a little too much. All emotional trauma is between him and the counselor. I am staying out of it
Next, there was Cowboy — a tall, wild East Texas ranch kid with more heart than sense. He had the brand of his family ranch burned into his forearm, a big Y for Younger Ranch. At about 6'4", he was all bone and muscle, dirty blond hair, bronze skin, and the kind of lanky frame that made him look like he'd been stretched out by the sun. He is young at 27 years old, still carrying that stubborn loyalty that you can only find with someone who grew up in the county. He came to know us because some thieves were trying to steal a horse from his ranch. I know this man, he loves animals more than he loves most people. He could not stand by and watch an animal that he raised being taken from his ranch. He might have shot at the horse thieves a few times with a Mini 14, luckily, the man he hit survived, or he would have had a long stay like me. I am pretty sure there is still a law in Texas that horse thieves can be hanged once they are caught. I am no lawyer, and Cowboy must have had a decent one because he only got 8 years.
The youngest in our group is a kid — well, I call him a kid. He is 20, about 5'9", a Black man we all call Nerd. And honestly, the name fits. Before he landed here, he spent most of his time playing Minecraft and whatever other games he could get his hands on.
What gets me is how sharp he is. Brilliant, really. He ended up here after getting picked up in Dallas for hacking a crypto exchange. From what I heard, he cut some kind of deal that kept the feds off his back. If that's true, he'll be walking out of here in three short years.
For now, though, he's just another young man trying to survive a place built to break people twice his age.
After chow, we have an understanding with the gangs: they give us a little space to hold a small church service, either out in the yard or in the rec room if the weather's bad. It always strikes me as funny how these hard‑faced gang members will not show up to the service itself, but when they need prayers, they will pull you aside where no one can see and ask for one.
I never say who it is for. I just pray a little harder, and you would not believe the things I've seen happen. One guy was facing charges for possession of meth. But when the state ran the chemical test, it came back as nothing but water. With no evidence left to stand on, the DA had to drop the case. He's out in the free world now, clean and drug-free
I am getting ahead of myself because today was like any other day, we were doing morning service. We were holding our morning service when the weather suddenly turned. This prison is very close to the Guadalupe River. I am convinced TDC got the land super cheap because the land is on a flood plain. The lower levels of the prison flood every time the weather looks like it's going to storm. At first, I was teaching a lesson on living a clean life, explaining fasting. The storm rolled in so fast, and the water started to rise. The river was overflowing. The guards didn't call us in; they just locked the yard gates and climbed to higher levels to keep themselves dry. Texas guards have a reputation for letting inmates die, and I've seen enough to know it isn't just talk. I once watched them stand over a man having a heart attack, doing nothing until he stopped breathing. He died there on the ground like a dog. Only then did they call medical. To them, we are less than human, caged animals, nothing more, and we all need to die. Today felt no different. The water kept pushing into the prison, faster and faster. I don't know what came over me, but I started to pray. I lifted my hand toward the Lord and accepted whatever fate was waiting for me. With that last breath, my life sentence is up.