Losing Control

Chapter One.

My eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight as a burly, bearded prison officer dragged me to the big metal gates and pushed me out. The force of the shove was so strong that I fell hard to the ground, my cheek scraping the gravel.
"Fuck."
I clutched my cheek and stood up, anger running through my body as easy as if if were blood.
I looked up at the brute who stood a good foot higher than me. His wrinkled eyes were creased in amusement, a smirk on his cold face. He pursed his lips and made a sound that resembled a wild animal before spitting on the ground a millimetre away from my shoes.
He wiped his hands on his washed out navy uniform as if I were a dirty stain he was trying to erase, then walked away as soon as he slammed the gates shut without another glance.
I blinked a few times, my eyes watering as I took in my surroundings. My cheek stung and my rage simmered away as I got my bearings.
I was a free man. At least, that was what I was told. I didn't feel free. I would probably never feel free again. I was still a prisoner trapped in my own mind.
Being free was alien to me. How was I supposed to feel? The only emotion I ever felt these days was anger. I had a rage inside that ran so deep it scared me. It scared others. The police officers had a bet going on when I would get thrown back inside again. A couple of them thought I wouldn't last the week.

I scowled at the pitiful plastic bag that the guard had chucked on the chalky ground beside me. It contained everything I owned. Two beige jumpers, four plain white t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, five pairs of socks and boxer shorts, a toothbrush and an out of date passport that expired nearly ten years ago.

There was also a small business type of card in the bag which had the address of the rehabilitation lodgings I needed to check into.
For the foreseeable future, home to me would be a run down hotel on the outskirts of town that housed hardened criminals like myself.
Some of us had homes to go to when we were let out, some of us had families that would welcome us back after years inside.
Unfortunately, I wasn't one of those that had people on the outside. I had nothing. I had nobody. It was just me and my shitty plastic bag of belongings.
Before I got sent down, everything in my life had spiralled, my life as I knew it had completely vanished. So now I would be on a rehabilitation course for convicts.
Essentially, I had to learn how to be a normal human again. I had signed on the dotted line for this course yesterday afternoon which meant that I had to follow the rules imposed on me. Doing the course was one of the many conditions ahead of my release.
It made me mad to think about how I would have to agree and be a yes man to the authorities above me for years to come.
After all, I had served my time. Why couldn't they just let me enjoy my freedom and leave me be?

I checked the card one more time, noting that I recognised the address. I used to often go to the tiny bakery on the corner of this road when I was younger. The younger me was a different being. A normal person. Before I was left inside to rot.

I started the walk to the hotel, but I already felt drained. My feet felt sore against the unfamiliar, hard ground and from memory, I had at least three miles to walk. In prison, we were allowed fresh air time for one hour a day, but the ground there had been squishy and un-natural. Like some sort of sporting turf.

As well as my few belongings in the small bag, I had what I was wearing. My only pair of shoes, black trainers with holes in them from years of being worn. I had black jeans with a rip right across the left knee-cap and a black tatty t-shirt that had been stained with bleach from years of cleaning at the jail. If you were in the right frame of mind for it, you were allowed a job. I wanted to clean. For four hours a day, every day, I would wipe, scrub and polish the whole jail from top to bottom. I earned a few measly pounds a week, but I always kept it going. I needed the cash for my cigarettes.

I gave myself a little shake as I realised that smoking had been the only worthwhile thing in my life for years. It kept me going. It was my only joy in life. Every time I got beat by a fellow inmate or even at times, a prison officer, I would close my eyes and tell myself I could get through it so I could have a cigarette. Pathetic. My entire life was a shit show.