My name is Frankie.
I got put away in 1990 when I was seventeen.
I remember the day they took me—blue flashing lights, my mum screaming, my little sister watching through the curtains like she was watching her favourite show. I didn’t even understand what was really happening. One minute I was running with my crew, thinking I was untouchable. The next, I was sitting in the back of a police car, cuffed, heart racing.
They put me on remand in Feltham, young offenders unit. It was a culture shock. That’s putting it lightly. Rough wasn't the word—imagine being thrown into a cage full of boys your age who’d already seen more blood than most soldiers. Fights every day, guards that didn’t give a toss, and a smell in the air you never really forget—like sweat, bleach, and fear.
You learn quickly in places like that. Keep your back to the wall. Don’t trust nobody. Keep your head down—but not too far down, or you become a target. I had a couple run-ins early on. One lad came at me with a toothbrush he'd melted and sharpened to a point. Said I was looking at him funny. I wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. In here, perception is reality.
They waited until I turned 18 to sentence me. Discretionary life. Eight-year tariff. I didn’t understand what that meant at the time. Eight years sounded long, but I figured I'd be out by my late twenties. Start again, maybe. But that's not how this system works. Once they’ve got you, they don’t like letting go.
Thirty-five years later. Here I am. Still locked up. Still talking about prison life.
I’ve been moved around—HMP Wandsworth, Swaleside, Long Lartin, Whitemoor, and now I’m rotting in one of the dispersals. They shuffle us like cards, every time something kicks off. Every time you’ve seen too much, or they think you're getting too comfortable.
The stuff I’ve seen—no one on the outside could imagine. I mean that. I’ve watched grown men cry like babies, whispering to their mums through the phone like she was gonna reach through and hold them. I’ve seen people stabbed in the showers with homemade shivs, blood pooling under the doors while the screws pretended they didn’t hear anything.
I saw a lad once—just a kid, younger than I was when I came in—get disemboweled over a snide comment. Took three screws to pull the attacker off him. Kid died on the floor, clutching his stomach, eyes wide open like he couldn’t believe it.
Boiling water and sugar—that’s another one. Makes it stick. They call it napalm in here. I saw a guy get it right across his face while he was eating his porridge. Just minding his business. Screamed like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Skin bubbled and peeled.
And then there’s the suicides. That’s the quiet killer. Sometimes they do it loud—tie the sheets around the light fitting, or slice themselves open and paint the walls. Sometimes it's quiet. Just stop talking, stop eating, and one day they don’t wake up.
And the worst thing? You get used to it. That’s what prison does to you. It normalises the abnormal. Turns your stomach to stone.
But me? I still remember who I was. Somewhere deep inside. I still dream. I still have nightmares too, don’t get me wrong. Some nights I wake up sweating, thinking I’m still that kid in Feltham, seventeen, scared out of his mind.
They tell me if I show enough remorse, if I tick all the boxes, I might get a parole hearing again. But that carrot's been dangling in front of me for years now. I’ve done the courses, seen the psychologists, written the letters. Still they say, “Not quite ready, Frankie. Maybe next year.”
And then you get the probation officers—their job title might as well be "fabricator." That’s all they do. Write stories about you that aren’t true. Paint you out to be some kind of manipulative monster, just to keep you caged up. They smile at you in the meeting room, shake your hand, and the next day they’re typing up reports that make you look like you haven’t changed in decades.
Take my current probation officer. Won’t write a proper report about me until the hearing’s around the corner. Then it’s a last-minute character assassination. I’ve learned now—every single one of them, two-faced. Pretend they care, but they’re just cogs in the machine, keeping the doors locked and the keys hidden.
To call this a justice system would be to lie. It’s broken. It’s rotten at the core. It’s about ticking boxes, keeping stats, managing headlines—not about people.
I’ve lost so many loved ones on the outside. You know what really breaks you in here? It’s not the violence, not even the isolation. It’s the time. The time you lose with your people. The moments you’ll never get back.
My last big losses came like a landslide, all in the space of three weeks. Around Christmas and New Year, 2018 going into 2019. First, I lost my nan. Then my great-niece. Then my dad. All within a blink.
I remember I got called down to the office. The chaplain was there. A vicar, nice enough bloke. He looked at me with this sorrow in his eyes and said, “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
And I just froze. My stomach dropped. I said, “What do you mean?”
And he looked confused, almost like he thought I already knew. “Your father passed away last night,” he said.
I didn’t even know. Nobody told me. That’s how it goes in here. You don’t even get the courtesy of a phone call half the time.
I’ll give the vicar his dues—he sorted it so I could attend the funeral. And I did get to visit my dad in hospital not long before he passed. For that, I’m grateful. But it doesn’t ease the pain.
This is part 1 of a multi-part story regarding the true experiences of a discretionary lifer.
we will add part two on tuesday, the 12th.
please let us know if you like these based on real-life stories. we are going to get the stories of the family members to show you that a sentances doesnt only affect the prisoner, but also the family
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