I never knew silence could be this loud.
At home, silence meant peace with my little sister asleep, the TV humming in the
background, my mom folding laundry on the couch. But in here, silence feels different. It
is very heavy, and sharp like it’s waiting for me to admit something I’ve been running
from.
I stare at the ceiling of my cell, counting the cracks for the hundredth time. I used to
count how many likes my posts got. Now I count the mistakes that brought me here. I
wasn’t a bad child. At least, that’s what I told myself. I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to
be seen. I wanted to feel like I mattered to somebody. When the older guys on my block
said I could roll with them, I didn’t think twice. They had respect. They had money. They
had the kind of confidence I pretended to have.
The night it happened, I thought it would be quick. In and out. Just a stupid dare to
prove I wasn’t soft. But the moment the store alarm screamed, something inside me
cracked. I ran, but not fast enough. The cops didn’t even have to chase me. I froze. My
whole future flashed in front of me and then disappeared.
Now I’m here. Behind bars. Seventeen. And wishing I could rewind time.
The worst part isn’t the metal door or the cold mattress. It’s the way my mom looked at
me during visitation. She always looks like she was trying to find the little boy she raised
somewhere inside the mess I’d become. I couldn’t even look her in the eyes.
If I ever get another chance, I’m taking it. I’m going back to school. I’m helping my mom.
I’m staying away from people who cheer when I fall. I’m becoming someone my little
sister can look up to again.
I can’t change what I did. But I can change who I become. And maybe this place isn’t
the end of my story. Maybe it’s the chapter that teaches me how to write a better one.
- Kenneth Smith
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