Rikers Island: Criminalized Survivor

In the depths of Rikers Island, within the walls of the Rose M. Singer Center, the night cloaks the dormitory in a shroud of stillness. Nearly fifty women, each a story of despair and defiance, lie sleeping in their beds. Among them is Shalise, a forty-five-year-old inmate who bears an unusual air of confidence, a stark contrast to the bleakness surrounding her. Her imprisonment for assault charges, a desperate act in a botched escape from the clutches of an abusive husband, has landed her in this notorious hell-hole, awaiting trial.

Shalise, a captive in the dilapidated jail, notices the crumbling relic of neglect that is now her temporary home. Time seems to have paused here, trapped in a perpetual state of decay. The heavy, moisture-laden air clings to everything, carrying the musty scent of old, forgotten things.

As the clock ticks away the silent hours, Shalise lies on her narrow bed pondering her bleak environment, the rough blanket barely offering comfort.

Rain hammers down from the relentless gray sky, finding its way through numerous leaks in the roof. Each drop is like a ticking clock, marking time in a place where it otherwise stands still. The leaks, as persistent as the despair that fills the jail’s halls, cascade into big, rust-rimmed garbage cans. These makeshift receptacles, scattered throughout the corridors, brim with water, their contents a murky testament to the building’s decay.

The walls, once perhaps a pristine symbol of authority, are now a patchwork of chipped paint and exposed plaster. Layers of history reveal themselves in peeling tans and grays, each layer a faded echo of a different era. The bars, once shining with the promise of order, are now a study in rust and neglect. Their once intimidating presence reduced to a tetanus-laden hazard, they rattle with a hollow sound, as if mourning their lost purpose.

In this decrepit environment, wildlife thrives in the shadows. Giant cockroaches, the size of small mice, scuttle with a brazenness born of years of domain. They claim the dark corners and crevices as their own, undeterred by the occasional flickering of the few remaining functioning lights.

Rats, bold and unbothered by human presence, roam the halls like small, furry overlords. Their eyes glint in the dark, reflecting a world turned upside down, where they are the rulers of this forgotten realm.

And then there are the lice, an invisible yet ever-present menace. They cling to the unwary, spreading with an ease that speaks of the jail’s overall state of abandon. Each itch, each scratch is a reminder of the jail’s descent into squalor, a tactile testament to life within these walls.

In the suffocating quiet of the dormitory, Shalise’s mind continues to race, a relentless stream of thoughts and memories. How did I end up here? she wonders. The walls of her dorm feel like they’re closing in, each one a reminder of the choices and mistakes that led her to this moment. The weight of her situation presses down on her, a constant, unyielding force. Is there any way out of this? she questions, her heart aching for freedom.

The dormitory, a space shared by souls each carrying their burdens, is unusually quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy. Suddenly, the stillness shatters.

A gunshot, loud and jarring, rips through the air like a thunderclap in a clear sky. Shalise’s eyes fly open, a gasp escaping her lips as droplets of warm blood splatter across her face. Confusion and terror seize her as she bolts upright, her heart pounding in her chest. She quickly realizes the woman beside her, Ana, has been shot in the head! Panic grips the room.

As remnants of the gunshot echo through the dorm, Shalise’s heart leaps into her throat. Time seems to stand still, the sound reverberating in her ears, a stark reminder of the reality of her existence in Rikers. This can’t be happening, she thinks, her mind reeling from the shock. The sight of the blood, warm and unsettlingly real on her skin, sends a shiver down her spine. Is this what my life has come to? The question haunts her, echoing in the recesses of her mind.

The woman beside her, once a living, breathing person with dreams and fears of her own, now lies lifeless, her head a gruesome tableau of what has just transpired. Shalise’s mind races.

As she whispers to herself in horror, Shalise feels a surge of fear mixed with a strange sense of detachment. This is the world I live in now, she realizes, a world where violence and death are mere inches away. She watches the woman with the gun, her heart pounding with a mix of empathy and horror. What kind of despair drives someone to this? she ponders, her own despair a silent companion in the darkness of the room.

The dormitory, once a place of rest, albeit restless and uneasy, has transformed in an instant into a scene of horror. The panic that grips her is palpable, spreading through her veins like ice water. She whispers to herself, a mix of horror and disbelief in her voice, “What the fuck?”

In the midst of the chaos, a woman stands, her hands clutching a 3D printed gun. Her face, twisted in rage and grief, is a mask of raw, unfiltered emotion.

The screams that tear from her throat are those of a soul pushed beyond the brink of endurance. “You killed my daughter, you bitch! What now? Rot in hell, you worthless piece of shit!” she yells, her voice a piercing, ragged edge that cuts through the tension in the room.

The other inmates, awakened by the commotion, are a mix of reactions – some scream, others cry, and a few remain frozen, their faces etched with the horror of what they are witnessing. The room, once a place of somber, resigned quiet, has erupted into a cacophony of fear and confusion.

Beside Shalise, young Layla trembles under her thin blanket, her eyes wide with fear. She’s new here, unaccustomed to the unpredictable eruptions of violence and authority that define Rikers. Shalise reaches out, her hand finding Layla’s in the darkness, offering a silent reassurance. But her own fear is palpable, a cold current running beneath her stoic exterior.

Across the room, Ms. Jenkins, the oldest inmate, sits up in her bed, her eyes reflecting a lifetime of witnessing too much. She mutters a prayer under her breath, a ritual she’s performed countless times, a plea for peace in a place where tranquility is a rare commodity.

As the guards storm in, their shouts adding to the cacophony, each woman’s reaction is a glimpse into her soul. Fears, hopes, and unspoken dreams collide in this moment of turmoil. Shalise’s grip tightens on Layla’s hand, a small act of defiance against the chaos, a silent vow to endure, to protect, to survive another night on Rikers Island.

Corrections officers, clad in riot gear which makes them resemble a battalion of armored turtles, storm into the room with practiced urgency. One of them, with a determination born of countless such emergencies, lunges at the gun-wielding woman. A fierce struggle ensues, the officer’s training pitted against the raw, desperate strength of a woman driven by unspeakable loss and rage. As the struggle rages, the other officers move through the dorm, their presence an odd mix of reassurance and intimidation.

The arrival of the corrections officers brings a new wave of thoughts. Shalise observes them, their faces hidden behind riot gear, impersonal and intimidating. Are they here to protect us or to keep us in line? she wonders, her trust in authority a long-forgotten notion.

Their uniforms, their gear, their very demeanor speak of authority and control, but in that moment, they are also the thin line between order and chaos, between safety and further tragedy. Finally, after what seems like an eternity but is only moments, the determined officer wrests the gun from the woman’s grip. She is quickly handcuffed, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her rage. As she is escorted away, her screams still echo in the room, a haunting reminder of the pain and desperation that has led to this moment.

Shalise feels a flicker of relief, but it’s quickly overshadowed by a deep sense of unease. No one is truly safe here, she concludes, the truth of her environment settling in her bones.

The aftermath of the incident is a surreal blend of efficiency and solemnity. Medical personnel rush in, their movements quick but respectful. They approach the lifeless woman, their faces a mask of professional detachment but their eyes revealing the weight of what they are witnessing. With a solemn efficiency that speaks of too many such occurrences, they place her on a stretcher, shrouding her with a sheet.

As the body of the lifeless woman, Ana, is wheeled out, the chilling reality of life and death within the walls of Rikers Island casts a shadow over the dormitory. Shalise remains on her bed, her body still trembling from the adrenaline and shock. Her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

A heavy and ominous silence falls over the room. The inmates inside, gathered in small groups chatting or playing cards just hours before, now stand motionless and wide-eyed, struck by the harsh reality that one of their own has met her end within these walls.

Shalise is still sitting up, curled on her cot in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She had just been talking to Ana, laughing about the dumb new guard on duty, before they went to bed that night. The graphic images keep replaying in her mind on an endless loop - Ana clutching her chest, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. Panic spreading across the dorm as someone shouts for help. The guards rushing in, their radios blurting out codes that meant nothing but somehow everything. The med team maneuvering Ana’s convulsing body onto the stretcher, her eyes rolling back as her last bits of life ebbed away right there on the cold tile floor.

Shalise’s whole body trembles, the aftershocks bearing witness to Ana’s sudden and tragic end. She feels void of warmth, the chill of the concrete walls and steel bars seeping into her bones and soul. She wants to cry but no tears form. Ever since she arrived here, she had Ana. They looked out for one another. Without her, Shalise isn’t sure she can survive this sentence alone.

Ana, kill someone? Shalise never would have guessed. She seemed so sweet and innocent. Shalise looks around the dorm, wondering for the first time, What have these ladies done? Why are they Here?

Her mind races as she rocks gently back and forth. She thinks of Ana’s two young kids who now have lost their mama. She replays their last conversation, trying to memorize the sound of Ana’s raspy laugh. She wonders if she could have done something, gotten help faster. She grapples with the harsh truth that Rikers shows no mercy - it didn’t for Ana and it won’t for anyone else. Death always lingers right around the corner, no matter their stories or sentences or dreams of getting out.

The dorm falls into an even deeper silence. But for Shalise, Ana’s presence still hangs heavy in the air around her. Rikers may have claimed another life, but it won’t claim Ana’s memory - Shalise will hold onto it as tightly as she grips her knees, rocking slowly through her grief on her cold, hard cot.

Life is so fragile, Shalise reflects, the finality of death a stark reminder of her own mortality. She thinks of her own family, and the pain of loss and separation. Is there any redemption in this place? The question lingers, unanswered, in the stillness of the room.

The fragility of life, the suddenness with which it can be snatched away, the complex tapestry of circumstances that has led each of them to this place – all of it swirls in her head like a maelstrom.

Shalise finally stabilizes into the present moment. She observes the blood covering her body. Seeking to rectify her condition, Shalise stumbles into the open communal shower, the hot water providing little warmth against her ice-cold skin. She is numb yet trembling uncontrollably, Ana’s blood still staining her hands and arms, matted into the creases of her palms. As she steps mechanically beneath the showerhead, the first blast of water makes her gasp. She braces one hand against the slick tiled wall to regain balance, dizzy with shock.

Rivulets of water cascade over her body. As they swirl down the drain in thin red ribbons, Shalise scrubs desperately at her skin. Dark crimson fades to pale pink but still the metallic scent clings to her. She rakes her nails over her arms, needing to feel something beyond this terrifying numbness. Raw scratch marks emerge but she embraces the pain, proof she can still feel.

Two other inmates silently join Shalise under their own streams of falling water. The first woman is tall and slender, her long braids dripping as the shower rains down. The other is older, worn hands trembling to push back her graying hair matted to her forehead.

After a tense beat listening to collective sounds of rushing water and distant sobs, Shalise speaks up in a cracked voice raw from screaming. “How the hell could they have missed that goddamn gun?” Her red-rimmed eyes flash with anger amidst her devastation.

The tall woman slams a fist against the wet tile in fury. “Ain’t nothing they can keep outta this hellhole they call protectin’ us.” She spits out a mouthful of water, as if trying to rid herself of the prison’s contamination. “We ain’t people to them. Just animals in a cage.”

The older woman shivers despite the steaming shower, haunted eyes gazing at the swirling pink by their feet. She mumbles under her breath about diseases and infections, obsessively scrubbing her arms as if to scour away viruses creeping from the blood-tinged water circling the drain.

Silence returns except for the relentless pounding of water on tile. The women stand motionless, soap dripping forgotten from limp hands as they seek meaningless purification. Everything echoes in the harsh lights reflecting off cold metal fixtures. The rushing water cannot drown out the gunshot playing on repeat in each mind, nor wash away the stark reality that more violence always lurks right around the corner of their confined world. There is no comfort, just shared wordless rage and grief swelling up to meet the endless stream.

The pulsing water masks Shalise’s choking sobs. She does not bother wiping her eyes as fat tears spill out. They flow steadily down her cheeks, as endless as the rushing water cleansing away the outward signs of Bear’s violence. But Shalise knows no amount of scrubbing will purge her memory of those seconds - Ana’s startled yelp as the gun fired, screams piercing the dorm, the light leaving Ana’s still-open eyes as she gasps out her last tortured breaths in Shalise’s frantic arms.

Shalise’s nails draw beads of red once more as she scratches harder, seeking oblivion beneath the pounding stream. She craves its scalding heat not for physical comfort but for absolution. She yearns for the water to soak into her soul, flooding her from within until she drowns out the echoing gunshot replaying on repeat inside her mind. She has no tears left, just the desperate hope that when she finally steps out of this shower, it will wash the horror away with Ana’s blood swirling forever out of sight.

As the dormitory slowly settles back into routine, Shalise cleansed of all traces of blood, lies back down. But sleep, the elusive respite from reality, is now a distant dream. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, stare into the darkness. The night, once merely a backdrop to her restless thoughts, has become a witness to a truth she knows all too well – in Rikers Island, peace is an illusion, and safety is a fleeting shadow.

Shalise feels a profound sense of isolation. The walls of her dorm are both a physical and emotional barrier, separating her from the world she once knew. Lying in the darkness, Shalise contemplates her existence. What does the future hold for me in this place? The uncertainty of her fate is a heavy burden, one she carries with her into the restless night.