June 12 | That Same Day 6:28 AM
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Rebecca Caurso

Searching through the drifting darkness of my inner eyelids, I attempted to complete the narrative of my dreams thus far. Putting together familiar names, vague faces, and previous actions were difficult to distinguish—as every new moment recollected from my memory, the previous morphed back into the darkness.

It was nearly an impossible task putting these pieces together...I shook my head replacing my train of thought with another.

Day one-hundred and eighteen.

Helping my mind keep sharp, I made it a habit to speak-out the number of days I was withheld throughout the course of my stay inside this hell-hole.

Unlike my regular prison cell, where I had access to pen and paper—a constant verbal notice was the only way I could keep track in this padded room. 

The guards probably thought I was crazy. Perhaps part of me did go.

But, in bleak reality, I didn't give a rat's ass about them nor the three hundred and twenty-eight steps they took from one end of the hallway to the other; this was my last string of rationality, my way of knowing when I would finally get out.

It was day one-hundred and eighteen—the day I've been silently pleading for.

"Twenty-one, twenty-two," I internally counted as my ear hugged the bottom threshold of the chilled door.

"Twenty-three," the consistent rhythm of the footsteps began to taper, almost with a daunting skepticism from the individual who patrolled the corridor.

I peered downward, maneuvering my eyes to catch whatever glimpse I can from the bottom of the doorway.

The footsteps came to a halt, showing a remanence of long protruding shadows through the small floor gap.

A mechanical clunk transpired as air in the chamber began to shift—whoever stood dismaying near the front of my cell ultimately dared to unlock it.

Immediately, I stood up and progressed to the furthest corner; impatiently waiting, as the anxiety from my stomach reverberated throughout my veins.

"Finally," I thought while pressing down the untamed static created by my long overgrown hair strands. "It's time."

Being dragged outward with forceful hesitation, the opened door exposed a silhouette of a full-figured woman standing ahead of blinding synthetic daylight.

"Rebecca Caruso," her bitter speech, as low-pitched as it was, traveled and bounced about the cell, intruding my unaccustomed quaint ears.

Completely conscious of my grin, I deliberately flexed my facial muscles more so. Today was my day, a smile or two was deserving, to say the least, especially considering all that I endured.

I gave myself a hard pinch on the forearm, I needed to make sure this was real, that this was truly my time. I quickly peered downward as the secluded pain began to fade, a small pigment of purple filled the swollen area underneath my skin, establishing truth.

"Let's get this shit done wit' before the crowd gets wind," she exasperated while pivoting alongside the open doorway, allowing more light into the bare room while exposing the bare grimness of her expression.

With a purposeful lack of haste, I advanced; taking in every moment, every nightmare, and every decision that inhabited the continuous loop of time within this cave of imprisonment.

If hell had a pseudonym, it was solitary confinement.

Approaching the threshold, I stood opposite the inpatient guard. Precisely gaping at the scene of her dark pores, forehead wrinkles, and the exact diminutive details of her wide face.

For months I've based this bland, heartless, look on memory, the thought of such evil and betrayal hiding behind a pair of deep hazel eyes was almost baffling, but then again prison wasn't a place of flowers and kindness.

Insanity and irrationality lingered within the air, with the waters being tainted by rage. Neither of us wanted to deal with the other, let alone be in the same presence.

"Fuck you," I rasped, my chest heaving as I spat a mouthful of saliva directly at her face. The clear, slightly bubbled fluid splattered across the broad bridge of her nose, dripping over her flushed cheeks.

Her reaction was instant, pure rage igniting in her eyes. Without hesitation, her large frame slammed me against the plated steel door with a force that knocked the breath from my lungs. Pain bloomed at the back of my skull where it struck the metal, sharp and relentless, promising a bruise that would blossom later.

For a moment, everything narrowed—the cold bite of the steel against my spine, the throbbing ache radiating down my shoulder blades, and the sharp sting of humiliation coursing through me. But beneath the discomfort, adrenaline surged, electrifying every nerve. It was worth it.

"Ya' so lucky—" she hissed through clenched teeth, the words mangled with fury as she swiped her right palm across her face. The slobber smeared down, mingling with the deep blue fabric of her uniform, the sight only stoking the fire in her eyes.

She exhaled deeply, calming her rage before finding her next words, "'Ima telling ya' now, if it was me," she muttered to my increasingly forceful pressed body," I'd swear I'd lock your tidy white ass in here for life wit' what ya' did."

"Yeah," I sarcastically thought, "You and all of Chicago."

"Ya' be damn privileged, Caruso. A lucky bitch, that's for sure," she accentuated while depressing my face. "Now, hands behind ya' back."

I did as I was told, not wanting any more confrontation—even though I yearned for it, I waited. Her long nails slightly interposed as her fingers felt granular while she compressed my wrists into the handcuffs.

Rotating me forward, I immediately noticed that it didn't take long for the spit to absorb into the fabric, only leaving slight circular dampness.

Fancy things these uniforms were, unlike the people who wore them. A guard's uniform was mandated to strict simplicity especially since they were prohibited from wearing name tags or any other exposing reminiscence of their likeness to the inmates due to ongoing threats.

A rational fear formed from the local court system after several federal guards in 2001 were found shot dead in their homes after the release of a particularly innocent inmate wrongfully charged.

As is her name, the fanciness of her uniform was irrelevant. It is the interactions with the people around us, however, that change our overall perceptions or feelings. We, as human beings, are naturally adaptable to dangerous situations.

This was me patiently waiting, adapting.

"Showers," she commanded while pulling my arms downward to ensure restraint.

I made my way through the bright-lit segregated hallway, hearing nothing but the innocent pleas and conjurings of the solely imprisoned saturating the echoes around us.

Catching a glimpse of the outside world through small barred windows, some of which still showed the sun's purplish hue shining. The day was still young as we walked from the secluded east wing of the facility, passing the main corridor, down the south wing.

As we swiftly crossed an employee break room, the female prison guard promptly halted, dragging me slightly backward from the momentum.

"Hold up a sec'," she ordered as we took a few strides back.

Pulling me through the room's vestibule, we observed as a few of the male employees fastened up their uniforms near, what I assume were their allocated lockers.

Two, additional, younger females were relaxing on a peeled leather futon, chattering away with oversized white mugs in their grasp.

"Well I'll be damned," she barked to the four people in the room, "What'ch all of ya' doin' in here for?"

"Our shifts don't start for another half-hour, ma'am" one of the female guards replied.

"You think I give a flying fuck when ya' shifts start, y'all ain't union," she objected. "So, get off ya' asses and get to work."

There was a sarcastically-dull "yes ma'am" response as both guards hesitantly got up from their seats while one looked at her with complete disregard.

"Wait," the one with the 'Be cool. Be calm. Be complete,' mug in her hand uttered as the gaze shifted and paused on my own. "I thought... I thought we weren't supos—,"

"What part of get off ya' asses and get to work don't ya' understand, Rosalinda." She attested, "Don't make me report ya' to the disciplinary committee again, 'cause so help me god, I will."

"Sorry, ma'am," she said while placing her mug down on the table before joining the other guards, scrambling to gather their tool belts and radio sets.

Mrs. Cranky-Pants and I continued forth, unlike the east wing which was specifically created for solitary inmates—the south wing of the facility was recently renovated to accommodate a growing prison population.

New recreational rooms were added such as a low-tech computer lab, a therapeutic art center, and the honorary Robert Caruso Law Library—an idea that daddy's once-favorite little girl conceptualized at the age of seven.

"Why do people do bad things?" My seven-year-old self repeatedly asked every time my father brought up the number of unlawful arrests he made during our family dinner conversations.

His simplistic response would be, "Because, sweetheart, bad guys aren't smart. They don't know what to do given a choice."

The paradox of recollections. Sometimes they work in your service, other times, they rigorously remind you of personal hardships.

I recalled one day replying with, "Our teacher says books help people get smarter. Smart people are good people, right daddy?"

"Yes sweetheart, that's true," He stated in return.

"Then why not give bad-guys books to be betterer and smarter?"

The simplicity of childhood haunted me as I peered at the gold embossed plaque with my father's name and the additional words "knowledge is wealth" italicized underneath. It presented itself with several successful endeavors of scratched vandalism—the only thing I had in common with everyone in this place.