Melissa Riley

All characters are fictional

 

            It’s 9:00 pm and here on the cellblock things are pretty quiet, I sit in my small cell staring at the cinderblock walls, the ceiling that seems to be closing in on me.  I still hear the women talking and chatting, we’re all one big family here, we seek the bond of each other. It isn’t a lesbian thing, oh we do have the women that do swing that way, but most of us just enjoy the company of other women. A lot of us have children, husbands, and family on the outside. I have no one; I was found on the streets, charging $5.00 for a blowjob, turning tricks just so I could eat. I have had pregnancy scares, I have had children, but as soon as I gave birth, they were whisked away to deserving families, the families would never know, that their adopted child’s mother was a ho and a drug addict.

            The smell of the cellblock has become familiar to me, the scent of unwashed bodies, s**t, piss, disinfectant, and other seemingly noxious smells that cloy to one’s nose hairs. My cellmate is a woman named Beatrice, she is a hulking mass of a woman, she committed the crime of loving too much, or maybe it was too little. I’m still not sure but she’s in here for life as well. We all have our stories; most of the stories are the same, yet there are vague differences if you wish to dissect the crimes. We are all victims of the judicial system, and in our own minds, we’re all innocent to an extent. I shifted on the hard mattress and shivered, life in Rikers was a cruel mistress, and this isn’t my first time being here. I rolled over and stared at the putrid colored walls, one would believe that a criminal could be used to being behind bars, like some animal at a zoo. I hear footsteps and look to see a bright light flashing in my eyes, the guard’s face as inanimate and cold as the walls, which house me.

            “Bed Check, Riley and Johnson, check.” The woman moves on and I go back to my thoughts. In here we have no first names we’re addressed by last name only, not even the other inmates will address us by our first names, it’s a system of formality, a system that is as cold as the wind blowing off the choppy waters outside. Why am I here? The reader could be asking this, well it isn’t for prostitution, drugs, or even robbery, no I killed a man, in fact I killed a few. I just became careless this time and I ended up being caught. In here, you have to follow the rules, the rules of the guards, and the rules of the inmates, in this cinderblock jungle the strong will survive, but if you actually manage to shank the top dog then you have to watch your back. I wasn’t always a killer, I wasn’t always a ho, no something went wrong along the way, I’m not sure if something just short circuited in my brain or if in fact I truly am a killer. I’m not sure, but I knew my days were numbered, they would soon strap me to the chair and inject my veins with the poisons, the poisons that will scorch my organs, and eventually I will have to surrender into sweet death.

            I hear screams, cries, and muffled talking, there have been several attempts to break out of the joint. None successful though, the island is surrounded by dangerous rocks, water with currents that will drag you under, if you make it that far, which most do not they usually have the guards and the dogs on them before they even make it to the fence. I thought about running, I should have ran away when I had the chance, but I fell in love, and then he turned out to be a cop. I felt betrayed, hurt, and I knew that I would never be able to trust again. The bed above me groans with the weight of Beatrice, she would be leaving me soon to have her child, and then I will probably never see her, unless she is out in the yard, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. Most of us have taken the route that Beatrice plans to take; only a few have been successful, the others are now in solitary, smaller cells than these, and all they get are paper gowns that will keep them “safe”.

            That’s a funny thought, “safe”, there is no such thing as being safe in the joint, especially here in Rikers, safe is just an after thought. A myth if you will, no matter what, we’re never safe, because we always have to fight for our lives, and fight for our sanity. My name is Melissa Riley, I’m eighteen years old, I am a drug addict, prostitute, victim, mother, and murderer. These pages contain my story, it is the only way I can keep my sanity, to write it down on paper, to share it with the world. Somewhere I went wrong; maybe by writing it down, I might be able to figure it out. There is no need to repent my sins, for I am not religious, I do not believe in God, therefore I know that when they stick that needle in my arm, I will be a husk with no light. Am I afraid of dying? Aren’t we all in a way? I’m afraid of surviving, I’m afraid of what I will have to do to survive, but actually dying? Never, I embrace the repercussions of my actions, I won’t ask for forgiveness, nor will I get down on my knees and pray, I will NOT find salvation like so many in here have claimed. I just bide my time, for however long it may be.

Author's Note

I may just make this into a book, I know it is sort of a vague short story so far, but I wanted to get something out there and see where it went. It looks like it will be a book.

Reviews

[SweetPeachesAlways]

I'm afraid of surviving - well, there's a poignant bit of word play...
Yes, continue, please...it would be a shame not to, now wouldn't it?

[Brenda Sue]

A great start to a story, I agree you should continue it. I am the foster mother of two children whose mother is in prison for drugs, no she didn't kill anyone but I read similar things in your story to hers. She was a great mother to start with but after she got on the drugs, she changed. I saw the change as she was married to my nephew and he was the one that got her hooked on drugs so bad she would do anything for them.
Wonderfully penned. Great job.

[Beautifully Tragic xPoe..]

great story, you should continue with it. Nicely done.


Great Write