I can’t fucking believe this.
Knocked back again. Paper review — denied.
Thirty-five fucking years inside, and it still feels like the system is playing some kind of sick joke on me. What makes it worse — what twists the knife — is that the probation officer who wrote the report this time? Never even spoke to me. No interview. No phone call. Nothing. Just picked up her pen, typed out her version of who I am, and decided I wasn’t ready to be free.
Imagine that. Deciding a man’s future without ever hearing his voice.
I don’t care how many times I’ve been through this — it still hits the same. That sinking feeling. That anger. That whisper in the back of your mind that says, What’s the fucking point anymore?
I always tell the lads in here — don’t let it break you. Stay focused. Don’t stress. But I’m not made of stone. I still feel it. Every knockback is like swallowing glass. I try to stay calm, but truth be told, sometimes I feel like flipping the whole place upside down. Just kick off. Let the rage do the talking.
And then there are the other thoughts. Darker ones. The edge of it.
Maybe I should just end it. Maybe this is it. Maybe I was never meant to get out.
But then I think of my family. My mum. My nephew. My great-nephew, who just came into the world seventeen weeks ago. I think of the people who still believe in me, who call me, who remind me that I’m still human.
And I realise — I can’t do that to them. I can’t vanish. That would be another kind of sentence for them. One they didn’t deserve.
No — the system might be broken, might be rotten right through to its core, but I’m not going to let it take me with it. Not yet.
The Next Day
Rang my legal team first thing. My solicitor answered — calm, composed, like always. Told me to hold tight, not to panic. She’s going to appeal it. But she has to wait for the full written outcome of the Parole Board’s paper review before anything can move.
Another delay. Another wait.
I put the phone down and just sat there, staring at the wall. Same four walls I’ve looked at for decades. It’s wild how a single conversation can bring both hope and helplessness.
Hope — because she’s not giving up.
Helplessness — because I still have no control over my own life.
Two Weeks Later
Got an email: “Can you phone me?”
I did — heart thumping. She picked up straight away. Said she’s moving forward with the appeal. That I’ve got a good case. She told me about another lifer — thirty years inside. Because of her, he got out on immediate release.
That story lit something in me. Something I’ve been afraid to feel for a long time: hope.
Not the kind you whisper to yourself at night. Not the kind you borrow from a dream.
But real hope. From someone who knows the system. Someone who fights it — and wins.
She sounded confident. Focused. Like she actually gives a shit.
Maybe she’s the one. Maybe she’ll finally get me through the gate.
And now the little things start hitting harder.
I find myself thinking about my great-nephew again. Seventeen weeks old and already cooing like he’s trying to talk back to me when I call. I know it’s just baby noises, but when I hear that sound — I feel alive again. Like I’m part of something real.
Maybe I could be out for his first birthday. Imagine that. Holding him. Watching him take his first steps.
And my older nephew — the one writing this down for me. He’s turning twenty-one soon. I remember when he was born. He was tiny, like a little dinosaur, all wrinkled and loud. Now he’s grown, a man. Where has the time gone?
I look at the calendar sometimes and think, How did decades pass like this?
It’s like I’ve been stuck in slow motion, while the world outside is speeding past without me.
People I knew are now grandparents. Kids I used to hold are having kids of their own. And I’m still here, chasing parole like it’s a lottery ticket.
Still joking, though. Still me. Told a screw the other day — if you want time to pass quicker, just swallow your watch. Got a laugh out of him. We take our wins where we can.
Three Weeks Later
Another email from my legal team: “Call me.”
I rang straight away.
She didn’t even wait for pleasantries. Just said it plain:
I’ve been granted leave to appeal.
I’ve got grounds. I’ve got the right to an oral hearing.
She’s going to fight this — properly. In person. In front of the board. And I’ll get the chance to speak for myself. No hiding behind paperwork. No made-up profiles or twisted reports without response.
It’s a proper shot. A real one.
I tried not to buzz, but I’m buzzing. You’d think after all these years I’d be numb to hope, but I’m not. You can tell people “don’t get excited,” but when you’ve been waiting thirty-five years for someone to say yes, it’s impossible not to feel it.
I think of the day I might finally walk out.
What would I do first?
Cuddle my nieces. Meet my great-nephew. Hold my mum. She’s getting older now. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got with her. The thought of seeing her smile in person again? It breaks me in a way that’s hard to explain.
I’m over five hundred miles away from home. Five hundred miles might as well be five thousand. But despite the distance, my family stays close.
I speak to them every day. Rinsing thirty, forty quid a week just on phone credit — but it's worth every penny. Those calls are my lifeline. Their voices keep me grounded.
My nephew tells me about his job, his mates, life on the out. I laugh at his stories, give him advice when I can. And my mum — she’s always on the other end, telling me to keep strong, telling me I’m not forgotten.
And now I’ve got this chance.
Not a guarantee. Not yet.
But a real chance.
And in this place, that’s everything.
They say when it rains, it pours.
In prison, it don’t just pour — it drowns.
Since I got news of the oral hearing, my emotions have been swinging like a fucking wrecking ball. One minute I’m buzzing, heart pounding, thinking This could be it. The next, I’m pacing the cell at 3 a.m., chewing on all the ways it could fall apart.
This system doesn’t give you wins easy. You don’t get to relax — not even for a second.
Every time I’ve had hope before, it’s cost me. I’ve walked into hearings with my chest up, paperwork in order, clean record, courses done, statements from people on the out. And I’ve walked out the same way every time — rejected.
“Still a risk.”
“Not enough insight.”
“Concerns remain.”
It’s like they’ve got a script. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done to change. Once they’ve written you off, you stay written off. But this time… it feels different.
My solicitor — she’s sharp. Switched on. She doesn’t just know the law; she knows how to speak it in a room full of people who only see statistics and scarewords. She told me we’ll go in strong. Told me to stay calm, let her handle the pressure, and just speak my truth when it’s time.
And that’s what I plan to do.
But truth is a dangerous thing in here. Because sometimes it hurts too much to say out loud.
Last night, I got a letter from my mum.
The screws dropped it off late — after bang-up. I read it under the glow of my little cell light, careful not to tear the paper. It smelled faintly of her perfume. Jasmine, I think. She’s worn it since I was a kid.
Inside the envelope was a photo — one I hadn’t seen before. It was my great-nephew, lying on a blanket, eyes wide, smiling like he’s already figured out the world. Behind him, my older nephew — the one writing this down — grinning like he’s proud to be an uncle.
Just seeing their faces shook something loose in me. Made me realise just how much I’ve missed. Made me realise what’s still left to fight for.
The letter was short. My mum’s arthritis makes it hard to write now.
“We’re proud of you, son. Every day. Just get home. We’re waiting.”
I folded the letter and stared at the wall until my eyes burned.
That’s the thing people don’t get. Prison’s not just punishment for what you did — it’s punishment for every moment you miss. Every birthday. Every funeral. Every cup of tea with someone you love that never happens.
And now, after all this time, I might finally be able to go home. I might get to walk out and hold my family again. No glass. No bars. No fucking time limits.
But first, I’ve got to get through the hearing.
Preparation for an oral hearing ain’t like prepping for court. It’s worse.
You’re not trying to prove innocence — you’re trying to prove you’re no longer a threat to society. That you’ve changed. That you're safe. Stable. Rehabilitated. Whatever word they want to slap on you that day.
But here's what they don’t see:
They don’t see the nights I’ve spent mentoring younger lads who came in angry and broken, like I once was.
They don’t see the courses I’ve done, the therapy I forced myself through, the anger I learned to bury without losing myself.
They don’t see the letters I’ve written to victims — even though the system says not to — letters I never sent, but needed to write.
They don’t see the cost of being human in a place that doesn’t allow it.
And when the day comes, I’ll sit across from a panel of strangers. A judge, a psychologist, a member of the public. They’ll flip through my dossier like it’s a menu, skipping over the bits that show growth, pausing on the parts written in someone else’s words.
I’ll have maybe an hour to convince them that I’m more than my past. That thirty-five years means something. That I’ve done the work.
My solicitor says she’ll speak first — lay it all out clean. Then I’ll get my chance. I’ve already started rehearsing the words in my head. Not too defensive. Not too emotional. Not too hopeful.
You’ve got to strike the right balance — show them you care, but not too much. Show insight, but not desperation. Any sign of emotional instability and they’ll label you a risk again.
It’s a performance. But it’s also my fucking life.
Last night, I had a dream — one of the rare good ones.
In it, I was walking through my mum’s front door. The smell of roast dinner hit me first. The telly was on — some daft quiz show she likes. My great-nephew was sat on the floor, playing with blocks, and my nephew was in the kitchen, shouting about how he overcooked the potatoes.
And me? I just stood there, crying like a kid.
Then I woke up — in this cell, under a flickering light, the sound of someone screaming down the landing. Back to reality.
But still... the dream stayed with me.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it might come true.
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