Number 511205.

“Number 511205. Frank Collins. It’s chow time.” Correctional officer Kagan said sternly. He was in his usual stance, his impatience radiating from his uniform. Officer Kagan had arrived to the prison in what couldn’t have been more than 6 months, yet he acted as if he owned the place. He had transferred from another facility somewhere in the Midwest. Frank and him had gotten along well enough though he could be a prick at times.

Frank hated Tuesdays. He hated most days, but he had a special loathing for today as it was soup day. They usually have a selection of soup to choose from, but sometimes they only are able to get whatever’s left over. Today was that type of day. Most prisoners made their phone calls before breakfast. Frank had stopped receiving calls from back home. His family probably couldn’t deal with the grief he caused them. So, he usually just waited in his cell until breakfast. He still couldn’t get used to a prisoners lifestyle. At-least when he got phone calls, he got some semblance of what he once had. Not anymore. Now his new life was here. With a new family too. All with one shared experience, their criminals.

Though that’s not how Frank saw it at first. He didn’t feel like a criminal. He was only trying to make the family proud. Though in his old life he had two. The Collins family that his sisters and he had been brought up by. Then there was the Positano crime syndicate. The crime family his uncle’s and cousins were all apart of. Though he wanted to make both proud. He put himself on a course that landed him into the position he’s in now.

He made his way to the mess hall. The usual groups were in their spots. The Latin gangs in one grouping of tables, the blacks and whites taking some other tables, with the Native Indians taking the rest. Frank and his crew had their own section. The Italians and anyone in close association usually had their own space away from the regular white crews.

               “Lucky, was wondering when you’d get your ass here. You still writing your love letters to the Mrs.?” John said embracing his friend.

               “Don’t bust my balls. You didn’t even get to that part in school.” Frank retorted. John only laughed. John Viti was his only friend he knew from back home. They had met in high school. Or at least what little of high school they attended. Frank felt school was a waste of time. Time better spent on the street corners or getting tail.

               The rest of their crew were only friends he made here. He had been running with them since day one. He had no other choice anyhow. His uncle Nick had seen to his welling being during his sentence and that included making sure he played smart and stuck with a gang or crew.  Frank had always been a solo guy and usually took his uncles words for a grain of salt. But that’s how he got into this whole mess in the first place, so he felt maybe he should learn his lesson. Though he rarely ever did.

               Vito “The Boss” Girardi sat at the bench quietly, enjoying his breakfast of eggs and bacon. The Boss never really took a liking to Frank, but he admired his family, so he gave him a pass. Frank didn’t like the man himself. He was bald and portly, always wearing a strong cologne that reminded him of his father when he came home after a long day from the bar.

               “Frank. Did you ever give the Warden that letter for me? I never received an answer.” The Boss said solemnly.

               “Yes sir.” He replied.

               “Well buddy. You’ll need to give him another one as well as a few other things for me. Vinny will tell ya what to do. I’m starting to lose a little patience. But I understand that most micks can’t get menial tasks done.”

               “Yes Mr. Girardi.” Frank said as his jaw clenched. The mick part really got him; he was only a quarter Irish. Yet it mattered very little to the Boss.  He nearly struck the man. But he knew his life would end soon after that whether by “accident” or not. Frank only had to sit there and take it. Frank sat as far away from Vito for the rest of the hour after that.

               When they left the mess hall Frank headed straight to his job. He didn’t enter the laundry room though. He stopped right before. Slamming his fist into the steel door. Damn fucking idiot. You did this to yourself, Frank. You just had to listen. He had been incarcerated for nearly three years and still he couldn’t move on from it. He had been incarcerated for drug trafficking and distribution. He was shunned by his families. His sisters and mother couldn’t bare it. His uncle Nick had been most disappointed out of all. Though he took some responsibility. Not being a good role model for his nephew. He gave him many chances to change paths. “Your better than this, than me. You don’t need this life, especially on the street with drugs. Become a lawyer. Something respectable.” His uncle would tell him or something to that affect. But he never listened.

               When he first arrived to prison, he blamed everyone but himself. His mother and father, his uncle, even his sisters. After a while he realized it was him. He chose his life and to the mimic the lives of others, this was his doing. Most people have told him to get over it, but he can’t. It’s stuck with him. He can’t shake it off.

               He did his job, or the best of his capability. He returned back to his cell. He had no interest in going outside. It would just be more of a reminder he was never truly free. He was sentenced to ten years and now it was cemented he wouldn’t be getting out for a long time. An eternity was what it felt like. Though there was no one to blame but himself. No one else’s fault but yours. No matter what he said though nothing changed.

               He laid on his bed staring at the ceiling.  Wondering if he jumped from the roof if that would make him free. Or would that just bring him to another prison of sorts. As he’ll always be in a prison. He made the decision to do what he did and lost ten years of his life. He’ll always be unable to get his old life back. Even when he gets out. He’ll be unable to truly return home. Always dealing with the prison of the past.