Ashley Tillinghast

My little black book

My little black book of prison horrors. Jail was a cold and eerie place for me. Days turned into nights, while nights seemed to never end. My so-called bed was a metal sheet, propped up on rickety, galvanized, legs. “Oh, you hoped for some quiet solitude?” I would often think to myself, while the creek of the bed pierced my inner eardrums with each and every toss and turn. My pillow was non-existent, my cell was rat- infested, and the smell of bleach and sewer filled my olfactory receptors.