I once was a man, but now I am a monster. I wear the same thing every day. I eat the same food every day. I see the same people every day. I hear the metallic click of the cell doors closing at the same time every day. I can barely take another one of these days.

I deserve this for what I did. But my past actions are not important to discuss—they are in my past for a reason. I am as sure that I will regret my mistake every day just as certain as I will hear that metallic click at night.

I think about my family, the daughter and son I left behind. I haven't seen them in years—they are sure to be grown by now. They are smart; they won't make the mistakes I have. They will do all they've ever wanted to do: go to college, have careers, and start families of their own. They will forget their terrible excuse for a father, wasting away. My heart fills with jealousy and sadness on visiting days when I am still alone. And I hear the metal click as other men get up and leave their one-room excuses for homes.

I count the days I have left, one by one. I only know what day it is if someone is watching the news on the rec room television. Today, as I flip through old magazines, I can hear the date being said, with lots of static from the broken speakers and excess noise from the men around me. I sigh and do the math in my head. It's a number with too many figures. I still mentally tick off my days here, as it helps the time pass. I hear the metal click after I return to my cell, counting the bumps on the ceiling like I do the days.

I wait for the mail to come, and I always hope I'm going to get something. I never do. With parents that are dead and a family that wants nothing to do with me—who would remember to send anything? At this point, after such a long time here, I hope that someone, anyone, might remember me and wonder where I've been or why I've been gone. Scratch that last bit—if they knew where I was, they would want to forget. I hear the metal click as the other men get their mail.

I sit and think about life—lives spent, lives stolen, lives wasted. Is my life a waste? I guess not. I'm not hurting anyone but myself anymore, and most don't think that's a waste. These are the thoughts that hit me hardest, make me regret the most; the thoughts that make me want to hear the final sound of the night, that metallic click, at eleven o' clock.

I once was a man, but now I am a monster. I wear the same thing every day. I eat the same food every day. I see the same people every day. I hear the metallic click of the cell doors closing at the same time every day. I can barely take another one of these days.