The bold red lettering screamed, the words an unexpected punch to the stomach causing a burdened breath to break free.  Unable to face the sullen sign any longer, I lowered my head, chin to chest, contemplating the burden that lie beyond – spending the next sixteen years imprisoned, only able to call home once each Christmas; the thought… fathomless.  My life was over.  My brittle heart crumbled, the pieces plunging into a pit of despair, dragging along my broken spirit.

I sat in a daze, oblivious to my surroundings, yet aware of their presence.  Fluorescent lighting clicked and ticked above, my nose numb with the smell of fresh paint masking decades of stale urine, and my bottom paralyzed by the cold concrete bench.  Slowly, the void began to lay claim.

The crackle of ratcheting manacle locks shattered the emptiness, a sound I would, unfortunately, become intimate with.  None of it even mattered.

This had to be cruel and unusual.  I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down any tears threatening to fall.  My chapped lip quivered; I bit down, tasted blood. 

“Aye…”  I felt a light tap on my knee.

“Aye…” Grappling through my haze, I struggled to focus on the face before me.  It belonged to the county sheriff, whose job it was to deliver me into the custody of the department of corrections.  

“Hold ya head up homeboy… You from Laurinburg,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

I understood the sentiment, but despite the man’s effort, the lore of the infamous Central Prison weighed heavy upon me.  Frightening images flashed before my mind’s eye, depicting gruesome tales of murder, assault, and far worse taking place behind the century old walls.  The prison’s vicious reputation brought to mind fangs, thirsting for fresh blood.  I shivered.

“You’re going to be a’ight Emmanuel… I’m sure of it,” the Sheriff said.

There was something in his tone, the look in his eyes, the way he said my name.  Emmanuel, ‘God is with us’.  It gave me a sense of reassurance.

As the words processed, my head began to rise.  Although I could feel my neck cringing beneath the weight of stress and anxiety, I firmly held the sheriff’s gaze and gave an affirmative nod.  Responding in kind, he smiled again before turning to leave.

Watching as he gradually descended that long empty corridor, I silently cried out to return with him.  The sheriff was going home… I was not.

Once again, I looked at the sign.

I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down the tears that threatened.  Defiantly, I stood… ready to face the burden that lie beyond. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.   Christmas and other holidays carry a unique struggle from prison. Carter captured some of that struggle in this essay, and I am grateful for him and all the WITS writers who continue to open up and share their experiences from within prison. If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.