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It's October 8, 2025, the start of my 27th year of incarceration. I woke up around 3 AM, realizing that this day had arrived. I prayed for all those impacted by my actions that hurt so many, then I struggled to find sleep again. My mind began reminding me of my crimes, the horrors I faced alone, and the fact that I'm in a cage, growing older. This usually broke my spirit, but now I'm better equipped to handle my depression. When I decided to confront my emotions in a positive

I had many friends during my incarceration, but none like Gee. We met back in the early 2000s, when Nottoway Correction Center was a tough environment for anybody. Our housing unit, Upper C East Side, was called the Ghetto. The administration gave us that name, and it was exactly that: a ghetto. When I met Gee, we were in the midst of a gang war. The kind that had you checking the stairwell when you marched outside. It was a hectic time, but Gee was the type who smoked cigare

I stirred from my rest, hearing the annoying loud whistle of a correction officer (CO) that ordered us to stand for institutional count. I did, as did my celly. The morning rays crept through the barred window, showcasing that a new day had arrived. Breakfast was these cornmeal pancakes that reminded you of sand being chewed on. I avoided them by the blessing of a friend offering me his Common Fare tray; the pancakes were made without cornmeal. I devoured them, then guzzled d