In 2013, I sat in prison serving a lengthy sentence with no outside support–no visits, no phone calls, and no money for commissary–only monthly letters from my brother, who was also incarcerated. Without love from family and friends, I had started to lose hope and my heart began to turn cold.

In the final hours of January 26, 2020, the lights were dim in a triangular unit at State Correctional Center. The mood was relatively normal despite the abnormalities of confinement. From smacking cards on cold steel to making 20-minute collect calls, incarcerated men were passing time the best way they knew how.

As a pair of gang members walked past striking me with mean grits, my back was pressed against the wall with my arms crossed. Like most nights during unit (pod) recreation, I was chilling, listening to music, and minding my own business.

On December 25, 2020, I woke up on my top bunk drenched in sweat. “Chow time!” the corrections officer shouted. He stood outside the opened cell door with two breakfast trays in his hands. Listening to my institutionalized instinct, I rose halfway before I quickly realized that my achy body wasn’t going to comply. I felt miserable and extremely weak. I rolled over to look down at my cell partner. “The trays, brah,” I said with a low scratchy voice. As he got up to get the cold meals, the vibration of the steel bunk had aggravated my severe headache. Oblivious to my discomfort, my cell partner thought I was either too tired or just being lazy. He placed the Styrofoam tray on top of my wall locker. Disgruntled and delirious, I closed my eyes in hope I would feel better in a couple of hours.