main cellblocks were located another fifty yards ahead. Instead of continuing toward the cellblocks, the guards nudged him to the right down a narrow, dimly-lit side corridor.
They went straight until they reached a set of thick iron bars. A faded red sign above the bars read Disciplinary Block . Burnside glanced to the right of the bars and saw a clear glass window, where another guard sat watching them from behind a desk. He waved to one of Burnside’s guards and they heard a buzzing sound as the thick steel doors rumbled open. They passed through the doorway into a wide hallway dividing two rows of cellblocks. Burnside realized these cells were a lot different than the others. Instead of having bars like a cage, the “disciplinary” cells had thick steel doors with a small square hole about the size of a pack of matches near the top. Burnside noticed a low slot in the door where trays of food could be slid into the cell.
I’ve heard solitary is pretty bad. Now I’m going to find out first-hand.
He watched one of the guards unlock the closest steel door.
“Get inside,” the guard instructed, fingering his baton.
Burnside didn’t see any point resisting because it would only get him more time in the isolation cell. He stepped into the small, dark space and shuddered when the door slammed shut behind him. The tramping of feet faded away as the guards left the cellblock. He heard the sound of the thick steel bars at the cellblock entrance rumbling back into place. A harsh metallic clanging followed and all was silent.
The small square opening near the top of the steel door illuminated a small square of light on the back wall of the cell. The rest of the cell was in total darkness. He took two long steps and reached the damp back wall. He turned right, took another long step, and reached the right wall. He smelled a faint foul odor below him. Reaching down, he discovered a crude hole carved in the cement floor, which he assumed was his toilet. Another two steps brought him back to the door.
This is going to be bad.
There was no furniture of any kind in the cell. He moved to the corner beside the door. A faint foul stench wafted up from the hole in the opposite corner. He figured he would get used to it eventually and not even notice it.
Ray sat down on the cold cement floor and leaned against the damp wall. He closed his eyes. He tried to think of something pleasant. He thought of green fields and forests, blue lakes and skies, and gray cliffs and mountains. He felt a little better. He figured if he could spend all his time daydreaming, he might make it through the experience psychologically intact.
Burnside tried to go to sleep, but nightmare images kept haunting him. The courtroom fight. The hospital fight. The jail fight. And now, the prison fight. These images came unbidden into his brain like unwelcome guests. He tried to go to sleep to no avail. He wondered how long they would keep him in this miserable place without any sensory stimulation of any kind.
He lost track of time. After awhile, he didn’t know if days or hours had gone by. Every once in a while, the guards would slide a tray of food under the door. He couldn’t see the disgusting slop in the tray, but he figured he had to eat it to keep up his strength. He shoved it into his mouth, swallowed, and tried not to think about the dog-food taste of the mystery meat. He washed it down with a cup of metallic-tasting water.
The only break in his dark solitude was the occasional rumbling sound of the cellblock’s barred door, which opened intermittently to allow guards to bring him what passed as his meal and take away the empty tray. He finished the second batch of disgusting slop they brought him when he heard the cellblock gate opening again. Standing up, he placed his eye against the small square hole in the door. All he could see was a tiny portion of the
They went straight until they reached a set of thick iron bars. A faded red sign above the bars read Disciplinary Block . Burnside glanced to the right of the bars and saw a clear glass window, where another guard sat watching them from behind a desk. He waved to one of Burnside’s guards and they heard a buzzing sound as the thick steel doors rumbled open. They passed through the doorway into a wide hallway dividing two rows of cellblocks. Burnside realized these cells were a lot different than the others. Instead of having bars like a cage, the “disciplinary” cells had thick steel doors with a small square hole about the size of a pack of matches near the top. Burnside noticed a low slot in the door where trays of food could be slid into the cell.
I’ve heard solitary is pretty bad. Now I’m going to find out first-hand.
He watched one of the guards unlock the closest steel door.
“Get inside,” the guard instructed, fingering his baton.
Burnside didn’t see any point resisting because it would only get him more time in the isolation cell. He stepped into the small, dark space and shuddered when the door slammed shut behind him. The tramping of feet faded away as the guards left the cellblock. He heard the sound of the thick steel bars at the cellblock entrance rumbling back into place. A harsh metallic clanging followed and all was silent.
The small square opening near the top of the steel door illuminated a small square of light on the back wall of the cell. The rest of the cell was in total darkness. He took two long steps and reached the damp back wall. He turned right, took another long step, and reached the right wall. He smelled a faint foul odor below him. Reaching down, he discovered a crude hole carved in the cement floor, which he assumed was his toilet. Another two steps brought him back to the door.
This is going to be bad.
There was no furniture of any kind in the cell. He moved to the corner beside the door. A faint foul stench wafted up from the hole in the opposite corner. He figured he would get used to it eventually and not even notice it.
Ray sat down on the cold cement floor and leaned against the damp wall. He closed his eyes. He tried to think of something pleasant. He thought of green fields and forests, blue lakes and skies, and gray cliffs and mountains. He felt a little better. He figured if he could spend all his time daydreaming, he might make it through the experience psychologically intact.
Burnside tried to go to sleep, but nightmare images kept haunting him. The courtroom fight. The hospital fight. The jail fight. And now, the prison fight. These images came unbidden into his brain like unwelcome guests. He tried to go to sleep to no avail. He wondered how long they would keep him in this miserable place without any sensory stimulation of any kind.
He lost track of time. After awhile, he didn’t know if days or hours had gone by. Every once in a while, the guards would slide a tray of food under the door. He couldn’t see the disgusting slop in the tray, but he figured he had to eat it to keep up his strength. He shoved it into his mouth, swallowed, and tried not to think about the dog-food taste of the mystery meat. He washed it down with a cup of metallic-tasting water.
The only break in his dark solitude was the occasional rumbling sound of the cellblock’s barred door, which opened intermittently to allow guards to bring him what passed as his meal and take away the empty tray. He finished the second batch of disgusting slop they brought him when he heard the cellblock gate opening again. Standing up, he placed his eye against the small square hole in the door. All he could see was a tiny portion of the
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