"Tony!" barks the guard, banging loudly on the bars, awaking me from what little sleep I had had in the course of the last week. "Visitor!"
I rub my eyes, wanting so badly to see a familiar face, to connect with someone, but at the same time not ready to be seen. It has beentwo weeks, only two weeks, and already I have seen too much. Too much has happened to me.
I am not well liked here. To begin, I am the lowest member on the food chain. I am the newest person here, and I am not respected, as some of the older and more seasoned convicts are. I am not even ignored, as I would like to be. I am known as 'the cop'. It is a faulty nickname, but those who are here know no different. To them, I am just another policeman employed by the government, another person who has done them wrong, and who should be punished for the sins of others.
Sighing, I rise from the small, uncomfortable cot on which I laid. It is far different from the bed Michelle and I shared such a short time ago, it seems, but in another way it seems decades earlier. I am on the bottom of the bunk, which suits me fine. My cellmate is a man convicted of murder in the First degree, as well as several misdemeanor assault charges, and he prefers to sleep above me.
I put both hands out through a small gap in the bars, and the guard promptly handcuffs me. It is humiliating, and I look at the ground to hide my shame. I see no reason for them to cuff me; have I ever intentionally hurt another human being? I suppose it is a trick question. I have never hurt someone with my own two hands, but I have endangered the lives of many people. I understand why I am here.
I understand, and I regret nothing. Even with everything that has happened to me here, with everything I have been exposed to, I regret nothing. If given the choice again, I would follow through with the same decision. Michelle is my wife, my life, my joy, my everything. She is my world, and the one thing that keeps me alive in this prison.
The guard leads me down the hall, past the jeering inmates, spitting insults as me as I walk along. I ignore them; I have grown accustomed to ignoring them by now. Pieces of paper hit me and I ignore. The guard continues leading me through the hall. I ignore.
He leads me to the visiting room. She is already there. She looks quite frightened, and it breaks my heart to see her like this. Her hair is mussed, not brushed, as she always used to do every morning. Her clothes are on properly, but they are worn, and not colour- coordinated. She wears no makeup. Not today. But what hurts me the most are the tears springing at the corners of her eyes as she turns, looks, sees me.
My god, I love her.