Wicked Games

1. Back to Black

 

                                                   1. BACK TO BLACK

Walking down that final narrow corridor of Bronzefield Prison was a moment that I all but lived vicariously in previous prisoners' departures for the past three years. The dimly lit stairway was in my vision and I couldn’t humanly walk any faster to reach the double doors that separated me from the outside world.

With the three police officers huddled far too close for comfort near me, I began to think of all the days that I longed to finally get past the barbed wires and the seven foot stone wall that made me feel so far away from humanity it was unreal.

I didn’t protest to being led to the purpose-sized room at the end of the corridor.  Patted down by female officers - like you could hide any thing in that terrible blue jumpsuit, - it didn’t help matters that security was tighter than the Queens Palace.

Though it was to be expected of course; people like me and worse were living and breathing in this very building.

It wasn’t until half an hour had passed that I was finally led out past the courtyard - one that was (sadly) full to the brim with young offenders. Away from the cat calls and envious stares, the security gates were opened. I released a breath that I didn’t realise I was holding and reached for the small suitcase  with one final glance at the place I was forced to call home for  three long years of my life. The colossal sign hanging on the 7.5 foot-tall electric gates was not needed to deter normal people, no. Not to tell them that dangerous people were lurking within and certainly not needed to prove that this building was what separated them from the likes of my ex-cellmates. Behind the life-defining gates, lied a courtyard that allowed the inmates their daily dose of fresh air after which they would return to their assigned cells in the beige-coloured concrete prison.

But that was no longer my place of residence so I continued walking down the street towards the bus station. Like a normal person. Note: like.

As I made my way down the street, the damp March air sent a breeze in my direction. This single deed caused a wave of shivers to go hurtling up and down my spine. Waves of pleasure, that is; it had been a long time since I was outside long enough to feel the rays of sunshine hitting my face and the coolness of the spring air. It was an experience I hadn’t realised I’d enjoy that much. Even though it wasn’t 40 degrees and I was only in sunny Manchester, there was nowhere on earth I'd rather have been, right then.

Too soon, I had reached the bus station and with a sparing glance at the bench I decided something. The feeble bench looked like it would collapse under my weight so with a heavy sigh I chose to save my self the trouble of unnecessary embarrassment that would follow and remain standing. It wasn’t until a few minutes had passed that my new-found freedom began to sink in. Free to breathe. Free to run. Free to cry.  And in this state of freedom I smiled - a grim smile, realising that I would never truly be able to experience freedom. No.

Freedom involved a concept that I may not even be able to grasp in this lifetime. For in order to be truly free you have to conquer the obstacles in your way – you have to face you’re fears and unless you do, you are not free. Not free at all.