I used to think prisons were for bad people. That they were a kind of mini hell — only without the fire.

A place where those who did terrible things were sent to rot and reflect.

A box to keep evil contained. But now I know the truth. There are more innocent people here than bad ones. And the bad people? They’re still in charge — both inside and outside these walls. They wear uniforms, carry keys, sign papers, sit behind desks. Control doesn’t vanish. It just changes form. It’s terrible.

As I sit in my cell, the irony of it all presses down on me like the heat that never lifts from the concrete walls. The unfairness of this world wraps around my chest like a second set of cuffs.

How did I end up here?

Ha! I honestly can't explain.

Or maybe... maybe I can, but I just don’t want to believe it.

I’ve run the timeline over in my head more times than I can count. Vacuum. Music. Doorbell. A sharp knock, not the polite kind. Men in black. A badge I barely saw. Questions I didn’t understand. They asked about someone I’d never met. A name I didn’t recognize. Then... cuffs.

Maybe it was a mistake.

Maybe it was a case of “you fit the profile.” Or maybe — and this is the one I try not to think about — someone wanted me gone. Framed me. Or just used me as a convenient scapegoat.

Was I mistaken for someone else?

Or maybe I clicked on a site — I'm oddly fond of that theory.

I think very hard about the possibilities of why I'm here.

I’m a good citizen. I avoid trouble.

Hell, I go to church every Sunday, and I’ve never even stolen a penny in my entire life. The thing is, they never really told me what I did.

They just processed me. Assigned a number. Put me behind bars like I was already decided.

At some point, you stop asking why. Not because you don’t want answers but because the questions echo too loud in your own head.

The guard walks past my door every hour like clockwork.

He never looks me in the eye.

I don’t blame him.

I wouldn’t want to face the people I help bury either.

Sometimes I wonder if my house misses me. If the vacuum is still plugged in. If the dust has gathered where I once stood, humming to myself, free. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get to explain. And if anyone would even listen.

But wondering won’t change anything. Not in here.

So I’ve started paying attention.

Not just to the guards or the routine, but to the way things move in this place.

Who eats first. Who eats last.

Who whispers in the corridor during lights-out.

Who trades cigarettes for favors.

Who disappears after roll call and comes back changed.

They think I’m quiet because I’ve given up. Well, let them think that.

The less they expect from me, the more I can see.

Last week, someone slipped a note under my tray.

No name. Just a sentence:

“You’re not crazy. They just hope you’ll act like it.”

That was the first time I smiled since I got here. A crooked, broken kind of smile, but real. Someone out there sees me. Maybe more than one.

So now I write.

On the back of receipts, napkins, even the torn edge of my blanket.

I write everything I see.

Everything they say.

Everything I remember.

If I ever get out of here, I’ll make sure someone hears it.

And if I don’t —

well, I’ll leave a trail.

Let them think this place has buried me. They’ve only plant

ed a seed — and planted seeds grow.

The end!