Writing Assignment #2

The man lay on his prison cot, in his prison issue jumpsuit.  He stared, unmoving, at the ceiling, listening to the whispers and sounds of his fellow inmates in adjacent cells.  Separated only by thin walls, he could here the goings on of the state prison.  The janitors sweeping up the day's dinner of fish sticks, the cries and moans of fellow prisoners as they talked in their sleep.  It was his first night, with many more hopeless nights to follow.  His cell was sparsely furnished, with a toilet and sink in the corner, and a broken A/C unit sitting forlorn and alone in the dead, still, Georgia air.  The entire cell was solid grey concrete, save for the formidable iron bars of his door, pillars of oppression blocking any hope of escape.  He wished to be Peter, from the Bible stories he had learned in his youth, imprisoned and freed by an earthquake, freed by his beliefs.  If only that would happen to him, imprisoned for preventing a white man from stealing his car.  The argument escalated, the man lay dead, killed in the conflict.  He had hoped then for a fair trial,but now he could think himself lucky was was merely beaten by cops and not lynched by a crowd.  He dreamed of it often, the light of the torches reflecting off the shards of broken glass, fragmented over the dead man's head.  His bloodied hands tied back, the noose around his neck, the rough cord wet with his blood, biting into his neck.  The crowd gesturing at him, urging the violence on.  He would always awake then, waking into an even for hopeless situation.  He awoke now, sweat dripping from his face, clutching his thin blanket like a greedy boy would a sweet.  He could hear his family at home, despair in their faces as they cried for him, to protect them against the forces that imprisoned him.  He fell asleep again.  His family would never wake up.