Creative Writing: The Trail To Hell

Fresh Meat

As I looked down the dimly lit hallway, thoughts in my mind raced, as my heart viciously paced. I would later learn that that particular hallway, leading to the cells, was called the Trail to Hell. Because prison, especially this prison, with these bitch ass guards, is hell. No way around that. In actuality, hell might be better than this place.

That walk was slow, dragging on for what seemed like an eternity. The rusted chains connected the cuffs around on my hands and ankles, clashed together loudly. The guard that was escorting me squeezed my arm so tight that I couldn’t feel my fingertips. I barely could gain a grip on my sack with my personals. When we got half way down the hallway, I could hear this Hispanic guy talking, with

This is your cell.” The guard said, yanking my arm, almost pulling it out of the socket. I peered through the rusted bars, instantly making eye contact with a ripped Hispanic guy laying back on his bed. He must of been 50, maybe 60. Two things caught me by surprise. First off, I was wondering who this old chulo was talking to. Secondly, I’ve never seen an old cat with that much defined muscle before. That shit was crazy, each muscle made his jail tattoos jump up and down, making them look more lopsided than they already were. I fixated on his inked skin for some time, because they looked as if my little brother drew them on with crooked tip marker.

“Español! You have a new cellie.”, the guard said finally releasing my arm.

“Here we go again. Let’s check this guy out,” he said, sitting up on his bed. “Hmm, they gave me a giant black ese with a bebe face. They love giving me these black eses. He’s lucky I’m not with my La Eme brothers anymore, or I would have to kill his tall ass. La Eme were some racist bastards,” he said grining. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This man was really talking to himself.

I moved as slow as possible, thinking about all the stories that I heard from my boys that have been in here. I could feel the fear boiling in my belly and radiating to my mind. A heavy lump in my throat was rapidly growing, as I fought to hold back the tears I felt cupping the inside of my

The silence in the cell was smothering. I didn’t know what to do. So I just stood there looking around the tiny cell. There was just a toilet, sink, dirty mirror, bunk bed and a small desk with no chair. The desk had a ripped-up book and a few papers stacked neatly on top of it. It also had a tray with what was once scrambled eggs fermenting on top. I looked like what was supposed to be scrambled eggs on it. There was a picture of a teenage girl in a red gown taped on top of the desk. Juxtaposed to that was a small window, with the view of the Death Row building. The sign on the top of the building read ENTER in bold letters. I pondered on the fact that the men who entered that building would probably never exit. The reality of the situation hit me for the first time. I realized how unbearable my first 10 minutes had been, and started to ponder on how agonizing years upon years in there would be. Loc leaped off the bed, toward me, cutting my thoughts short. It scared me so bad I almost shit