If there was one thing Lone Island Correctional Facility taught me, it was this:
I won’t go into the details of how I ended up there, I’ll just tell you that they were bogus. My hands were completely clean, but I was mistaken for my brother, who’s hands are bloodier than a butcher’s on half off hamhock Friday’s.
But I digress.
I was imprisoned for a lot of things. In fact, the list was so long that I never got to read all of it. Which meant:
Sentencing was hell.
Lone Island Correctional Facility was the seventh circle. A desolate island on a desolate planet. Made to make inmates feel stranded. Like there was no escape. Like there was nothing they could do. Guards were gods, and the head of the facility was Zeus himself. Disobedience meant punishment.
And more punishment.
Stepping out of line meant not being seen for weeks. And not because you were in solitary. We all wished that was all it was. Solitary would be a great place. A reprieve.
In a place where even uttering the wrong response, or sneezing at the wrong time, could earn you a lobotomy, it was all you could feel.
The looming knowledge that you were alone. That no one and nothing could save you from the staff. From the facility. From the planet.
Hell was life, and that solid knowledge bred the feeling of helplessness.
But that’s the thing about Lone Island Correctional Facility. It’s all about suppression, all about powerlessness. About feeling like you can’t do anything.
So, what happens when you break free? When you find a way out?
Doesn’t that make you a god, too?
It just makes you human.
Because helplessness is just a state of mind.
Continue reading “Freedom For Space”