Quincy
The concrete floor scraped against my palms with each slow, deliberate push-up. I would try to continue my daily routine even if I was locked up in hell. One… two… three… I gritted my teeth and let the burn in my arms overtake the noise in my head. The jeering of other intimates in their cells. Their loud laughter. Their feet stomping on the concrete ground. The pounding beat of memory I couldn’t escape. Twelve… thirteen… The cell reeked of sweat and bleach, a perfect match for the stale guilt that lived in my lungs now. I bent my elbows again, chest barely brushing the cold floor. Two days in and my skin etched with irk. I hate this place. The walls. The toilet in plain sight. The damn mattress is thinner than a bath towel. But mostly, I hate how easy it was to remember everything now that the distractions of wealth were stripped away. Nineteen… twenty… A knock sounded on the glass door of my penthouse office on a Wednesday, 2:32 PM. I had been sipping coffee laced with a dash of vanilla bourbon, arguing with my assistant over calendar overlaps. My father had my phone ringing all day, he wanted a final decision about the South Africa deal which I was hellbent on not signing. I remembered tapping on DND, and going over to open the door. I was confused to see two plainclothes agents and a federal warrant. “Quincy Laurent?" "Yes?" "We need you to come with us." No cuffs. Not right away. That came after the press caught wind and they needed a good show for the cameras. That part? That part was so humiliating. Perp-walked in front of people who used to hold doors open for me. My father didn’t even come to the arraignment. Twenty-seven… I rolled over onto my back. My white shirt, which looked less of white and more gray with grime, saved my skin from direct contact with the filthy floor. The only part of my body I was willing to come in contact with the filthy floor were my hands which I will scrub thoroughly with the cubicle soap once I'm done. My chest heaved, forearms trembled. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I didn’t bother wiping it—not with my filthy hands. “Conspiracy to commit fraud,” they said. “Wire fraud, securities manipulation, insider trading.” I hadn't even touched most of it. Sure, I’d signed off on a few sketchy memos, shaken hands at a few too many charity galas with men in dark suits and darker morals. But I never meant to cross a line. I didn’t even see the line until the indictment landed on my desk like a guillotine. My jaw clenched as I sat up. The tips of my fingers brushed against the edge of the bed. More like a concrete slab. My back hurts. It had all fallen apart so fast. The media had called me the “Silk Shark”—a young hotshot CEO who rose too fast, too smooth, too rich. They made it sound like I was some criminal genius. But the truth? The truth was far worse. I was just… naïve. I thought having a last name that meant something would protect me. I thought pleading innocent will justify me. I thought money bought mercy when my innocence failed. I thought my father's silence in the courtroom meant support, not condemnation. I stood up, hands on my hips, panting like someone who had been chased by a wild dog. My dirty vest clung to me like a second skin. I crossed to the sink, washed my hands thoroughly with the cubicle soap, and splashed water on my face, letting it drip down into the already-slick collar of my shirt. Six months. That’s what the judge gave me—"leniency" for cooperating. Six months in Blackbridge Correctional Facility. Only five more to go. I met my own eyes in the cracked mirror. The face staring back looked older than it had six weeks ago. More hollow. Sharper. “I’m not one of them,” I whispered under my breath. Like saying it would make it true. But here, in this cell with no windows and one door that only opened for other men to chain me up and lead me around like livestock—I was just another inmate. Just another number. I slumped back onto the bed, arms folded behind my head. In the hallway, the gate's buzzer sounded. Footsteps echoed. The prisoners jeered loudly and laughed. I strided to the door, peeking through the small opening. Armed guards flooded the hallway. One stopped just in front of my door. “Step back, boy. Hands behind your fuckin’ back.” the guards blurted. “Why should I?” my voice was raspy from lack of speech. “I won't ask twice.” I hesitated for a moment, then I did as commanded. Commanded. I lowered my head, arms behind my back, I shut my eyes, a deep breath followed. Five more months and this will be over. ****** I stood on a straight line with five other men, the small space in the room was enough to make my stomach churn. The odor oozing out of these men made these even worse. The room was a shade of sterile white that seemed to glow under the flickering fluorescent lights. Everything smelled like sweat, mildew, and something faintly metallic. This wasn’t holding anymore. This was the real thing. The officer behind the desk barely looked up. “Strip.” I blinked, unsure of what I heard. “What?” The officer met my gaze. His—angry, Mine—confused. “Clothes off, rich boy. You deaf?” Heat rushed to my face. I glanced sideways at the other prisoners—most were already pulling off shirts, stepping out of pants without hesitation. As if this was routine. For them, maybe it was. For me, it felt like my very skin was being peeled away. I had never undressed in front of anyone if we are not counting my escapades with hot New York models and my current girlfriend. I hesitated, then pulled the shirt over my head. Goosebumps rippled across my arms. My trousers dropped next. A beat later, my briefs joined them in a heap. I was naked. Utterly. And they made me wait like that, inspecting each prisoner one by one. I crossed my arms over my chest instinctively, but the guard walking along the line barked at me. “Hands to your sides. Eyes forward.” The officer walked past each man, inspecting us like livestock. He stopped in front of me, pausing. “Soft hands,” he muttered, grabbing my chin and turning my face side to side. “Pretty face too. That’ll be popular.” I clenched his jaw. I wanted to say something, but my throat was dry and his stomach twisted too tightly to speak. “Turn. Bend.” I turned, humiliated, and bent at the waist as instructed. I felt exposed, violated even before the actual cavity search began. When the gloves snapped on behind me, I almost lost my composure. I gritted my teeth until my molars ached, trying to breathe through my nose and pretend this wasn’t happening. The guard muttered something else—maybe a joke, maybe a warning—before stepping back. “You’re clear. Get dressed.” The “clothes” they handed me were folded neatly, but nothing about them felt clean. The beige jumpsuit sagged around my lean frame. The elastic waistband cut into my skin. The number stamped on the chest made me feel like an object, not a person. Next came the mugshot. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I looked at the camera and didn’t recognize the man staring back. Hollow eyes. Disheveled hair. A shadow of fear behind the pride. “Name?” “Quincy Laurent.” The guard smirked. “Of the Laurent hedge fund scandal?” I didn’t answer. My silence was enough. They scanned my fingerprints, logged me into the system, and handed him a worn pamphlet. INMATE HANDBOOK – BLACKBRIDGE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY “Rules for a safe and orderly environment,” it read in cheap bold font. No fighting. No fraternizing. No trading, no hoarding, no speaking back. Keep your hands to yourself. Lights out at 10 p.m. The list felt endless. The rules felt like a noose. Another guard, older with a clipboard and sunken eyes, leaned in. “You follow the rules, you survive. You start trouble, you'll wish your sorry ass for a different cellblock. Are we clear, Laurent?” “Yes, sir.” “Drop the ‘sir.’ You’re not in court anymore. You’re an inmate.” The door buzzed. I was escorted down the long hall lined with dirty floors, faded walls, and the constant hum of something just out of reach—despair, maybe. I passed inmates in the hallway—some silent, some sneering, others just watching me with that slow, predatory calm that unsettled me to the bone. Quincy Laurent. Once a guest on financial news networks. Now just #C143.JordanThere’s something about blood on your knuckles that calms you down.Maybe it's the color. My favorite color.Maybe it’s the heat that comes with it.Maybe it’s the pain attached.Maybe it’s the fact that, for once, the world stops asking you to explain yourself and just lets you burn.Roach made a mistake. I gave him a warning. For someone who is sane is enough. Instead he went on step on my fuckin’ foot. I'm so glad he saw all the warnings and chose to walk through trouble. I am that Trouble.So yeah. I painted the yard with him. I made sure to burst his fucking face so he will be terrified of his own reflection. Highly satisfying. The release of pent-up anger. Now the guards were dragging me away like some stray dog that got into the neighbors’ chickens. One of them had his elbow jammed into my back like he was trying to break a bone. Another kept shouting in my ear like I was deaf. I wasn’t deaf. I was done. These guards—most of them—are so quick to put me on chains. It's
QuincyAfter having spent a month here, I have come to realize that there's something deceptively peaceful about prison mornings. The serenity despite hostility. The quiet rustling of the thick trees in the woods nearby—a gentle reminder of the miles you are away from home.It's Friday. The last day of June. Not like dates mattered anymore…it did though, but it's best to never count your days in here. For someone like me, I would feel the earth spinning so slowly—if I kept on counting like I did when I got in. It's Friday morning. Yard workouts. Out of every activity we do in this for prison, this is the cream of the crop.The yard was painted in muted light, sun barely warming the concrete, but the chill in the air did nothing to tame the beasts it enclosed. The tension in here had texture—you could breathe it in, taste the bitterness on your tongue, feel it settle heavy in your chest. But still, it remains the best place to be the cell. You're not trapped by four thick walls. Black
QuincyA whole day and a night had passed. Jordan and I lived mute in our little confines.But guys’ beef only lasts for a short time. So yeah, we finally began speaking.And by speaking, I mean we exchanged glares, and muttered passive-aggressive insults across the cuboid like we were a couple stuck in a toxic marriage we didn't signed up for.The air between us remained tensed, filled with everything we didn’t say hovered over our heads, waiting to drop like a busted ceiling tile.But somehow… we survived it.I didn’t apologize for snapping.He didn’t apologize for stepping in.Instead, the silence wore itself out.He’d watch me read my boring books, while I’d look from my peripheral view at how this guy did more than a hundred push-ups without taking a break.He started tossing me commissary snacks again. I handed him a clean towel once after showering.We sat in our usual bunks—him below, me above—and while the quiet didn’t become comfortable, it stopped feeling like war.Small st
Jordan In my twenty-eight years of life, I’ve never met anyone as…boring as Quincy.He moves through life like a fucking ant on a factory line—purposeful but predictable, following the same invisible trail day after day, never pausing to wonder if there’s more beyond the hill.Man’s like an ant with OCD and a watch—up before the bell, bed tight like he’s expecting inspection, brushes like he's got a date with the mirror or he'd got a hot chick at the board meeting who occasionally bats her eyes at him, slowly eats his repulsive meal—as he had called it–in the same damn spot (on the top bunk) He takes his shower and drowns himself into both current and old newspapers—anything to keep me from talking to him. Yes, he's been avoidant from the first day I came. Not just to me, but the rest of the inmates. Guards, as well. But hey, respect. Dude’s got his own rhythm in a place built to mess you the fuck upBut then again, there's only one of his tasks I like to join him in. The part wher
Quincy It's dinner time, As usual, the prisoners jeered loudly upon seeing the guards roll in the food tray. Most of them complain of not having enough food to keep them standing. Some, in dying need to detoxify their guts. The guards—turning on deaf ears—dropped the food through the hatch like we were zoo animals. I watched the metal tray hit the floor with a metallic clack, the contents jiggling like something that had once been alive and very, very sad. The feeding system in Blackbridge Correctional Facility is the last thing I would ever get used to. “Dinner’s served, sweetheart!” one of the guards called out, sounding entirely too gleeful about it. It was the same guy with the sharp-eye and a long scar across his cheek, who called me the ‘fund guy’ the day I arrived here. I could hardly tolerate Jordan calling me those persky names, the was doing same. Maybe I think I wouldn't mind risking my six months jail sentence just so I could plunge my fist into his face.Jordan was alr
QuincyIn fourty-eight hours, the size of this cell felt like it had shrunk by half its original dimensions—thanks to the large man lying beneath me. I sat on the edge of the top bunk, trying to read a book I found really intriguing---anerican politics, but the crinkling sound of Jordan’s chewing gum echoed loudly, shifted my focus to him. Even though we were far apart I could still smell the sharp tang of his breath every time he exhaled—a mix of nicotine and something metallic.Yes, nicotine. I’m sure the jackass even mixes it into his shampoo or whatever the hell he uses to wash that inked-up body of his.“Could you please stop the popping? I’m trying to focus here,” I snapped, my last thread of tolerance finally snapping. I set my book down and tightened my jaw.I’m honestly pained by how much everything he does annoys me. Maybe it’s because, growing up with onlychildsyndrome, my company was always limited. Now, I’ve got to adjust to this.I heard Jordan scoff quietly from the bo