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Hell Is Repetition

A Prison Testimonial

By Kyle CejkaPublished 12 months ago 4 min read
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It is said that Hell is repetition. I believe it -- that's all prison is.

I live in River North Correctional Center in Independence, Virginia. My prison is classified as "Level 4" -- medium security, although it often seems that the those in charge are intent on operating it as much like a maximum security facility as they can get away with. Unfortunately for the residents of this facility, they get away with quite a bit.

The population of this facility is housed in four buildings, three pods to a building. Two of the pods have 41 two-man cells and the third has 44. One thousand and eight men living in spaces barely bigger than a large bathroom. The fact that our toilets are barely three feet from the head of our beds serves as a constant reminder that that is exactly what we are living in: bathrooms with beds in them.

The day begins at 5:30am when the lights come on. If I'm not already awake, this is my alarm clock. But often I awake hours earlier, biting my knuckles to stop from screaming. Night terrors suck. My mind isn't always a nice place to be, and when stress become a storm in my head it gets loud in there... even when I sleep.

First count is at 6am. I'm supposed to stand up at this time so the officers can see that I'm present, alive, and uninjured; but the fact is, this little morning ritual would have more meaning if the officers actually looked into the cell as they walked by.

After count clears, the first calls for school and vocational learning are made, followed by breakfast. The food is terrible -- it is largely made of starches, especially potatoes that are almost never fully cooked, apples baked to mush in a pointless attempt to stop people from making wine, and soy. There's a minimum of actual meat. The state pays 35¢ per meal for each inmate and proves the old adage that you get what you pay for. What's more, the kitchen department gets a bonus each quarter of the fiscal year depending on how little money of their budget they spend, which the kitchen manager excels at -- since this facility opened in 2014, I don't think she's spent more than half the budget each quarter.

After breakfast, pod recreation begins. At some point they'll call outside recreation and most of the pod will go outside. But I rarely do. Outside recreation is a cruel joke: each of the four yards are barely larger than our pod's common area and they're nothing but asphalt and chains link fences. Beyond the perimeter I can see grass and trees, oftentimes deer and rabbit, sometimes turkeys. But you can never reach them, never touch the grass. It's torture.

In the pod, I spend most of my days playing Pathfinder with my Pack. At our table we create a bubble around us, a shield against all the misery and noise and negativity everyone else seems intent on drowning themselves in. At our table, we're not in prison anymore. We make the best of the environment we must live in -- we're a family. Nothing is allowed to interfere with that.

The pod smells like stale air and too many people in too small a space. Too many of them don't grasp the concept of good personal hygiene. Some of them make loud noises just to make noise -- if they're quiet they might start thinking about who they are and what they've done with their life, and that won't lead anywhere good.

As if these pointless noisemakers aren't bad enough, there are those inmates who insist on making their every conversation a complaint about everything and everyone else. They seem convinced that it is their divine mandate to be miserable, to make sure everyone around them knows they're miserable, and to inflict that misery on as many people as they possibly can. I'm certain that if pardons were handed out to everyone tomorrow, they'd surely find a reason to complain about it.

Phone calls are great, but the disembodied voice of GTL is the bane of my existence. Every time a call is accepted it says, "Thank you for using GTL," in a cheerful female voice that can only be synthetic -- no living person is so soulless that they would so cheerfully thank you for using a phone system that systematically bleeds families of their money. The fact that it thanks me for using it when I have no other options makes me want to find the machine that runs this phone system and misbehave with a fire axe.

Despite GTL's stranglehold on the disenfranchised and their families, hearing the voices of those I Love gives me the strength I need to continue behaving, to fight through the noise in my head and resist being overwhelmed by it. My Loved Ones encourage me to smile, to find happiness in a place where so many others are only happy when they're making others as miserable as they are. For just a little while on the phone, with my back turned to the pod, I can forget the shithole I live in and the miscreants I am forced to live with.

The days blend one into another, milestones creeping up on me with startling speed. Yesterday I turned 30; next year I turn 40. Monotony is a prison routine.

The day passes, our characters level up and we get locked down for the Night. Tomorrow it starts all over again.

It has been said Hell is repetition. I believe it -- that's all prison is.

incarceration
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About the Creator

Kyle Cejka

Kyle Cejka is an incarcerated author whose profile is facilitated by his Wife, Cydnie. He lacks direct internet access, but is determined to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a world-reknowned bestselling author despite any obstacles.

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