It’s 3 a.m. I’m awakened by the smell of human feces and the sound of a flushing toilet from my neighbor next door. 

I open my eyes, hoping to feel the comfort of a king-sized mattress, pearly white walls, a view of Lake Michigan outside of my window and the smell of breakfast being cooked. But my reality is a small prison cell, a paper-thin mattress, walls with chipping gray paint and 96 rusted steel bars.

Sprawled on the bottom bunk, I take in my surroundings. I’m 18 years into an endless debt of two natural life sentences owed to the state of Illinois. This is my dwelling space, a human cage.

The flushing toilet finally stops, which allows me to breathe through my nose again. I cherish the brief silence while I struggle to keep water out of my eyes. Blessed with the luxury of not having a cellmate, I’m able to cry in private, which is part of my daily routine. With a tear-stained face, I begin my day.

Holding a toothbrush the size of my pinky finger, I hit the cold-water button on my stainless-steel sink. I wait for the running brown water to turn clear, but it never does. Frustrated, I grab a bottle of water and attend to my daily hygiene. 

Two bottles later, I’m preparing to clean the floor and walls in my cell. I grab a bottle of cleaning solution that consists of Irish Spring soap, bleach and Axe body wash. The solution provides a nice smell to my living space. 

I pull out my property box and place it on the top bunk. Next I pull two laundry bags off the floor and also place them on the top bunk. One bag is filled with clothes, specifically my whites, which are socks, underwear and T-shirts. The other bag is filled with food, including packaged tuna, cereal, grits, chips, cookies and coffee. 

Once the floor is clear, I get on my hands and knees and wipe the floor with the cleaning solution. The liquid is so potent that roaches scurry up the wall. I try to smash them with a rolled-up magazine before I finish cleaning the floor.

Exhausted and famished, I examine the contents of my recently-delivered breakfast tray, which holds a slice of coffee cake, cereal, two boiled eggs and an apple juice box. I decide to work out first.

I start with jumping jacks, then pushups, situps and running in place. The plan is to go for 30 minutes, but I’m determined to lose weight so I go for an hour. Dripping in sweat, I stare at a roach as it scurries up the wall and out of my cell. 

As I struggle to catch my breath, I realize I have a dilemma on my hands. Stacked in a corner are cases of bottled water. My shower days are every other day and today isn’t one of them. So, I have to decide if I should use a third of my water to clean myself or wash up with the iced tea-colored water that comes out of my sink. Remembering that I can buy goods from the commissary store tomorrow, the decision is a no-brainer. Eight bottles later, I’m back on my bunk, allowing my muscles to heal. Without eating breakfast, I fall asleep.

Hours later, I’m awakened to the sound of the band Coldplay and my two neighbors arguing, which is a form of entertainment for me. Since my upstairs neighbor is playing Coldplay, I know the time. Prison is all about routines and his routine is to play Coldplay at 9 a.m.

With school in an hour, I gather my clothes for the day. Beneath my mattress is a pair of navy-blue khakis and a sky-blue button-up shirt. Once I’m dressed, I put on my all-white Nike Uptown sneakers and finally reach for my breakfast tray.

I grab the tray, anticipating a subpar meal, but it’s even worse: I open up the tray and find three roaches feasting on my coffee cake. I throw the food in the toilet. I reach under my bunk and pull out my makeshift cooler, which I made from Styrofoam trays. 

I grab a carton of milk and a bag of cereal, which I eat while listening to my neighbors lie to one another. I’m reminded of a Richard Pryor joke that went something like this: “He’d tell a lie, I’d tell a lie; that’s how we became friends!” Today’s lie is about how much drugs they had sold and their trips back and forth to Mexico. 

They are on opposite sides of me, so I have the unfortunate pleasure of being stuck in the middle. The toilet flusher who typically wakes me up starts the fight.

“My dude,” he says. “I used to make two trips to Mexico every week.”

My neighbor, the skeptic, replies: “Man, you’ve never been to Mexico. What part of Mexico were you going to?”

“The Mexican part.”

All I can do is laugh. The two keep lying to each other for about 40 minutes before the officer arrives at my door for school at 10 a.m. I place my bowl in the sink and leave my cell.