All Chapters of Cellblock Heat : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Quincy The van jolted to a stop. Its brakes shrieked, putting a full stop on the page of—the last word—of freedom, turning on to a new page to captivity, chaos, all things dreadful. The shrieking sound made me flinch, my heart drummed too loudly against my ribcage. This was it. The steel door hissed open. Heat swirled in from the outside—thick, sour air clinging to sweat and concrete. Through the grated window, I could see the tall, razor-wire fences of Blackbridge Correctional Facility stretching into the sky like a challenge to God. They stood about eighteen meters from the ground, heightening the acclivity of my captivity. A uniformed guard barked something, but my ears were ringing too loud to catch his words. I slowly stepped out of the van, shackled at the ankles, wrists cuffed tightly in front. The chains clinked with every careful step I took down to the asphalt. My once-pristine suit—now replaced with an ill-fitting county-issued beige—hung off my frame like a joke. I w

Quincy This was my fifth day in prison and I felt like jumping out of my own skin. Not only did I feel like the walls were closing in on me every passing day, I noticed my health deteriorating from lack of good food. Breakfast is always cold oatmeal seasoned with spit and pepper spray. Lunch? Probably a cream bologna sandwich and an apple that's been kicked around for extra flavor. And dinner? Dinner's the same as lunch. “C143,” A guard called from outside my cell. I sat up straight on my bed, my muscles ached so bad. “Ain't got no money on the books. Better luck next time.” He slid my usual mouthwatering breakfast through the little space on the door. “Here's what I got. Enjoy.” I'm hungry, I'll take whatever I can get. So far it's edible. I went over to the door and picked up the tray, my jaw locked. I got to my bunk and began devouring my sumptuous meal without sparing it a glance. It tasted all things awful. The guards tell us when to eat, shower, and shit. Choosing what

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

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

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