Prison of Choice

The clock ticked slowly as I stared at the walls of this prison. The hard, white stone walls, void of emotion. The wardens just did a lock out; prisoners who were caught out of their cells will be doubly punished.
I’m stuck here somehow by both choice and force. Not like I chose to be punished, though I could have skipped out and dealt with the consequences later.
The prisoners in the room talked amongst themselves during the warden’s presentation, seldom paying any attention until the warden loses his mind and screams out threats of punishment. Sometimes the culprits are taken away, other times the warden turns a blind eye.
I must admit, I’ve grown attached to these fellow prisoners. We share stories of the life outside over free poorly-made lunch. We talk about what we will do when we get out. Sometimes, we think that it’s just easier to exist here than it is in the real world. Others, we can’t wait to gain the freedom we rightly deserve.
Of course, fights are bound to happen within the walls of a prison. Fights over petty things, things that don’t matter outside these prison walls. Of course, we are not outside of them yet we still exist inside. And inside we fight over girlfriends or boyfriends, we fight over phones, and we fight over time. Often times this leads to isolation and a catch up of duties afterwards. I’ve never been put in isolation, but I hear it’s a drag.
We have our black market trade going on. Of course drugs of all sorts are banned, but in the darkest corners of the dark, those who have them trade. Though other prisoners are not even aware, let alone the wardens. This secret trade is continuous, and a quick way to gain power as a newcomer.
We aren’t even allowed to freely use the bathroom. Only when the strict time schedule allows can we go. I wonder if graffiti in bathrooms is due to too much freedom, or too many restrictions?
Sometimes we are given temporary parole to wader the outside world, only to have to return immediately whenever the prison wants us back.
Though, it’s not all bad. It could be worse, that’s for sure. There is a nurse here to care for minor wounds, though not to treat for headaches. There is food here, though nothing those with food would be envious of. There is education, though many within these walls fail to see the value.
“Class! Today we will talk about the American Revolution…” The teacher shouted, gaining the attention of most. I knew that this was my prison of choice. I knew that given an option, I would choose this temporary prison over freedom with ignorance any day.





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