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‘Cough-cough!' my throat wheezed, waking me up at nearly 4am. I looked around and saw that mostly everyone was sleep. The few that were awake were staring at me. I breathed in, out, audible breaths that made me yearn for my asthma pump. I waited though, instead, rising to my bare feet. Usually, I was careful when I stood up, a particular dose of consideration for my neighbors above and beside me. They next bunk over was an arm's length away. In the dorms of Lincoln Correctional Facility, it was literally impossible to social distance. Five dorms filled with twenty people, totaling at one hundred people on a single wing. My legs felt heavy, as though I were wearing ankle weights. Because they were so weak, I grabbed onto the bunks, shaking them slightly, all carefulness thrown out the window. I went towards the light in the long hallway. My eyes were burning by the time I made it to the shared bathroom. “Feeling better bro?” I heard someone say. “Yeah, I'm good” I lied, the blood rushing to my head obscuring my vision. I honestly couldn't tell who had spoken to me. I sluggishly went over to the line of sinks, washing my hands in the steamy, boiling hot water that spilled from the faucet. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Thick bags under my brown eyes, rough scraggly hair beginning to cover my face. “I just want to die” I said in a low voice, practically incoherent to the others who were in the common bathroom. I threw water in my face before I stalked back towards my dorm. There were others of course, in the hallway in front and behind me. But the noises are what got to me. People coughing and sneezing. Like its honestly possible that everyone on that wing had covid and yet nothing was being done about it. When I made it back to my bed area, I lay down, shivering slightly. I think more than anything I was sad. My outdate was less than two weeks away and before I come home, I get sick. I was so disappointed in the system, mainly because I wasn't the only one going through the same thing. Instead of releasing the people who were already coming home, they would rather keep healthy people and put them in bunks next to sick people. But then again, in our society, felons or rather incarcerated individuals weren't even treated as second class citizens because technically we weren't citizens at all...just state property. As I lie down, it feels like someone is sitting on my chest. When I told the nursing staff about it, she gave me an ibuprophen. I took one along with a vitamin I had bought at commissary and took a weak puff from my asthma pump. It didn't do much, but it was enough relief to put me to sleep. My eyes softly closed and I suddenly I saw nothing but darkness. Darkness...until the light was suddenly turned on in the room and I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stirred, a small nurse standing before me in between the bunk beds. She reached down, wiping the thermometer across my forehead. “96” she soon said, turning away. So many questions popped into my head at that moment. Like how can you have covid, but not a fever? And for the people who did have fevers, was it possible that they didn't have covid? The weight of the world on my chest, I reached over to my small property boxed lined against the wall beneath my television. On its surface was a small notebook I kept handy. I kept hearing this one phrase, I repeated it over and over in my head. ‘I want to give up but I can't...this is not how my story ends' The words spilled onto the notebook's hard surface in blue ink. With those words I began to think of my time in prison, seven complete years at this point. I thought about the person I was when I started my journey, my battle with depression after I had gotten found guilty, the fights and hardships I had suffered especially the month I spent locked away in isolation. I though the sleepless nights, the starving, the occasional brutal treatment from the officers, literally everything I had been through because of my actions. Most of all, I remembered what had gotten me through. I looked at the composition notebook in my grasp. It was almost filled from cover to cover, my ugly handwriting littering every page. Throughout my entire time in prison I was writing, from books to short novels, movies, even music. Somewhere along the lines I forgot about that. I sat up, my thumping head resting in my palms. I was so tired; I just wanted to lay and sleep all day. Instead, I rose and went to the bathroom where I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I forced myself to eat. My stomach could only handle a peanut butter and jelly sandwich but it was enough. After I ate, I drank nearly a gallon of water. I didn't know that I was that thirsty until I started drinking. Suddenly, I could breathe better. That same day I went outside and I ran laps on the grassy patio. My lungs burned and my body screamed at me, but I just kept repeating the words I wrote. ‘This is not how my story ends'

Bobby Shmurda was first denied early release, due to multiple prison violations. Those violations consisted of being caught with a shank, drug possession, & fighting. Officers confirmed the rapper was release early Tuesday morning by the parole board, due to good behavior.

From the years 2018-2019, adults might think we kids are being spoiled by things such as rap music, gangsters, drugs, and people who influence bad things. Now, this is purposely to view the case of the children and teens getting affected by other bad choices are age group do. When parents see a group of kids getting arrest or killed for an act or deed they had or was involved in, That type of news leaves an effect on not parents but their children. Parents always say, “I'm doing it to protect you,” and there is no fault in that, but when parents take it to the point where their teen can't be a teen, it's not protection it is IMPRISONMENT. The last thing a teen wanted to feel is like their being held in captivity by their blood. As soon as they think that way, they get mad, angry, sad, lonely, and like they did something wrong. That's the worst feeling a teen can feel. When a teen always wants to go out to have fun with his/her friends but can't because their parents feel as if they still need protection. The best thing parents can do is trust and let their children protect themselves for once. Then watch them grow into becoming strong men or women in the future. So with parents who like to keep their child safe, I assure you their always going to be protected. You just got to let them find it by themselves. Don't make your child angry by trying to do what's best for them or because you're scared. Try an leave space for the teens and kids that they are. IMPRISONMENT will get a teen into trouble instead of out of it. IN WHICH THEN THE CAPTIVITY OF A YOUNG SOUL IS LOST.

You've got a letter. I ran as fast as I could down the stairs in my house with my birthday crown falling off my head, I had an idea of who the letter was from. I took the letter in my hand and held it close to my heart and took a deep breath of air. I looked down at the brown envelope and there it was my birthday letter from dad. I opened the letter to see pink and blue balloons as the background on the card. I felt the butterflies fluttering up my throat as I read… Overwhelmed with emotions and confusion I ran into my room and cried, not understanding why things were the way they were. As I drifted into a fitful sleep, I remembered the story of my father's cry. February of 1993, while traveling, the car was stopped and searched by police officers. The officers found weapons and drugs. My father's life as well as mine would never be the same. My mother received a phone call days later from him where he explained the occurrences. The trial lingered on for weeks; the verdict came back, and he was sentenced to 52 years in prison. Being able to understand what happened was not difficult, but being able to talk about it was the hardest thing. I grew up knowing the most caring man in the world, and to think he was in prison, was mind blowing. I was ashamed that my father was in prison. I hid it or avoided talking about family because of reactions. I felt disappointed and angry because of his position. He made a decision that cost me the relationship that I crave for now. I wondered if he thought about my mom and me? I was 11 when I sat down and really talked about this with my mom. She told me it was okay to talk about my dad's situation.To me, this situation my mom and I were in just made us stronger together. My mother was both parents. My mother's sacrifice and ability to provide for me was a great achievement. She took care of me, worked, went to school, and loved me all at the same time. When he calls, we talk about anything and everything; he teaches me what I need to be taught like boys and making the right choices in life. Despite of my dad's position and what he did, I still love him and no one can change that. My mom also promotes our relationship. She knows that I am the only thing that keeps him going in prison. While my mother is supportive, I have encountered many people who have said hurtful things about him. Some even said I should turn my back on him. How would turning my back on him benefit me or him? I do not love my father because my mother says so or because that is the right thing to do, I love him because he has done a lot for me without him actually being here. I realize that he made a bad choice and is paying the consequences for it. I am proud that my father keeps his head up during his ordeal. I know that his arrest and imprisonment has changed him for the better. He will be a changed man and father when his time is up. Before I visited my father in prison, the thought of going to a prison freaked me out. Going to see him was so hard for me, I kept thinking, I could not face him. Before, I did not want to look at him I give him sympathy or make him feel worst about his situation. I knew that was selfish of me but it was a hurdle I had to get over and I did. In 2009, I drove deep into New Jersey to see my father. I was never this afraid ever in my life. I cried all the way there. For some reason I could not get it together. When I walked into the prison, I had to get processed and checked. During this time I think I took about 100 trips to the bathroom trying to get myself together. Looking around everyone seemed calm and content as if this was easy. I sat in the chair waiting for my number to be called. The door open and I knew that was him, my daddy, my father. I rose and hugged him and he kissed my forehead, I felt relieved. We sat for almost four hours talking about anything. I studied his features and realize I looked just like him. I smiled to myself. I love my father. I felt rejuvenated, like a new person. I was happy that I made him happy. He has not seen me in 17 years and I finally made that happened for him. My heart smiled. I was a new person. As time passes and I continue to grow and appreciate my life, friends, family and my freedom, I still keep in mind that life is a journey and my journey has many obstacles. I am determined to overcome my obstacles. Throughout my journey, I can say that I have parents that have loved me unconditionally. My father's incarceration has had a positive impact on my life. I feel that his presence in prison helps me stay on track and focus in everything I do; knowing he only wants the best for me. I do suffer as I wish he could start his life over and have him spend every day with me. I believe that life's obstacles can either make a person stronger or weaker. My father's incarceration has provided me with the motivation to be triumphant and look at the position I am in as a reminder of the meaning of life and the cries we all have.

Dear Ely, It's dark here, do you know? Even during the day. And the window is so small; I can barely see the gardener when he passes. Can you see him when he passes your cell? Is he one of the Others? But... he never looked scary to me. He smiles at me when he finds me looking at him through the tiny hole of a window. Sometimes, he even passes me a candy. But what if he is one of Them? Oh, Ely. . . Dear Ely, I miss you so much. Remember those times when we used to play 'catch-Sam's-tail"? And how we used to pull and braid each other's hair? It's been so long. Do you know why They did this? Do you . . . ? Dear Ely, They knocked today. But I remained quiet, just like you had told me when we came here. When I did not open, They banged and thrashed at the door. I still didn't make a sound. Oh Ely, I am so scared these days. They might come and take me away, just like Maurice. . . Dear Ely, Do you know it rained today? I can still smell it; though the rain is gone for hours now, but the intoxicating damp, sweet smell of the undergrowth is reminding me of all the fun you, I and Sam used to have. The gardener had, very discreetly, passed me one of those fluffy flowers we had seen on the day we were dragged here. I was going to say thank you, but the Others had dragged him off when They found out what he did. . . Ely, I think they are coming for me. I can hear the screams and firing. Did they get you, Ely? Did they? Ely, can you hear me? I'm so scared. What do they do once they drag you off? Do they point those ghastly black things at you and blow off your heart? Or do they hang you upsi Museum Authority: These scraps of writing were found on the walls of the cellar where the victim was kept. We assume she was killed before she could end her last of the queries to the person whom she called Ely.