Inmate #8213

Caleb Fuller, age 19, convicted murderer. Sentenced to natural life.

First full day in prison, walking to the mess hall

Eating his first prison food

First prison job sewing uniforms

2nd night in his cell

On the prison yard

Led to Solitary in just underwear for fighting

After a month in the hole

Cleaning him up at the end of 6 months in the hole

I know of a private event that is scheduled for next month at F22. It would likely be a 23/1 event meaning 23 hours in your cell and 1 hour of out of cell (showers etc.)

I will admit to all of you now that I came very close to deactivating this tumblr last night.

Over the last few months I have been inundated with questions and messages, especially concerning roleplay. You may ask why I would consider deactivating after a statement like that! Well, the honest truth is that I have nearly 5600 followers. I have answered well over 3000 questions. I have 600 questions in my que currently. And do you know how many of you have actually and accountably been to one of the 3 roleplays I am associated with over the last 3 years? Nine! That's right nine.

I answer minutely detailed questions about roleplay; details including routines, sexuality, transport, costs, detailed scenarios, cell styles, underwear, showers, clothing....EVERYTHING! It takes 2 to 3 hours a day. And in 3 years, 9 of you actually tried it! Could there be more? Sure. But verified participants are 9!

I do not know how to motivate you.

I do not know how to inspire you.

I do not know what content to include any more.

But these spaces and this blog will disappear my friends without serious support and participation.

The inmates are kept busy with mostly pointless backbreaking labour from sunup to sundown. Their uniforms caked in dirt and sweat by the end of the day.

They´ll be sentenced to 100 days in the impact prison program. directly after court they´ll get their uniforms. Once a week a bus will collect them and bring them to the prison camp in the middle of nowhere, where they´ll be head shaved and chained together in groups of ten inmates for the duration of their sentence. They´ll sleep, eat and live in tents with bunk beds. Every day in the morning they´ll get their first ration of nutriloaf before sending out for work in the fields, of course all inside the seperated prison area. In the middle of the day there´ll be the second ration than continue working. In the evening when going back to there tents they´ll be unchained for shower. There´ll be a place seperated by fences where they´ll hose down each other with cold water before get on their uniforms (they´ll be changed once a week) and be chained together again. After recieving their third ration of nutriloaf they´ll be send to their bunks. It´s strictly prohinited to talk to other inmates at any time so there wont be gang memberships or some negative influence leading to other crimes. Disrespecting the rules will lead to one week in a steel isolation box outside in the sun. Once locked there´ll be just a small gap in the steel door where light comes in and the guard throw in the inmates rations of nutriloaf. Water and a toilet (a hole in the ground) are inside so there´s no need to unlock the box during these week.

After 100 days inmates are send back home. The bus stops at a bus stop near there homes, they get there possesions secured at arrest back and have to go the rest of the way in there prison uniforms worn for the last week of there sentence so everyone can see where they come from.

When you thought, normal Prison already sucks this will teach you an important lesson! No phone calls. No visitation. No cellmate or no contact to other inmates in general. No TV. No Books from the prison Library. Just you and the 2 by 3 meters cell with just a Steel bench, a Steel toilet and sink, a small table and a chair, all secured to the ground or Walls, and a small window with frosted Glass

The „Highlight“ of the day are the 30 minutes time in the yard - if you can call it yard… Theres no Green, just a floor of concrete, no landscape to see, just a Little Bit of sky because It’s Surrounded by at least 4 meters high concrete Walls make you feel Like Looking up from the bottom of a big pool. Its covered with a wire mesh so climbing out is impossible. Its separated by more concrete Walls and Bars so every Prisoner has his own small streak, Maximum two Meters wide and around 5 meters in length - not able to See the other inmates but at least possible to talk a Little Bit - as long as there’s no guard on the surveillance footbridge leading over the „yard“ which is also the Smoking Platform for the guard so it’s more likely that a Guard shouts „No Talking!“ if you try - and you will behave as you don’t want to loose this last Little privilege.

I still remember the headlights before I saw the road again.

One second, I was driving my pickup through the back roads of rural West Virginia—windows cracked, country music low, boots resting heavy on the pedals. The next, red and blue lights were flashing in my mirror like something out of a nightmare that didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

My name is Chase. I’m 21. Before that night, I’d never even had a speeding ticket.

I pulled over on the shoulder, gravel crunching under my tires. My hands were steady at first, then not so steady when the officer walked up. When the officer came up to my window, he looked young—close enough in age that it almost made it worse. Not angry. Just… done with this kind of night.

“Been drinking tonight?” he asked.

I remember laughing once, like it was a joke that would fix itself if I treated it lightly. It didn’t. The field test felt humiliating in a way I couldn’t explain yet—I just knew I was failing something I couldn’t undo in real time.

When he told me to turn around, I remember thinking I’d be back in my truck in a few minutes. I wasn’t.

After he told me to put my hands behind my back, everything got quiet. The cold metal of the cuffs snapped shut, and suddenly I wasn’t just a guy in jeans and cowboy boots anymore. I was a case.

The ride to the station was silent except for the hum of the road. No sirens this time. Just inevitability.  My wrists began to hurt as the cuffs dug into my wrists. 

Intake was fluorescent lights and paperwork that made everything feel official in a way that didn’t leave room for denial. They took everything that felt like mine—boots, belt, shirt, wallet—and replaced it with fingerprints, photo, and numbers instead of a name.  My identity stripped away, piece by piece.

Then came the uniform. They gave me a standard-issue jail outfit: a well-worn orange jumpsuit made of rough, scratchy fabric that didn’t breathe right, the kind that clung where it shouldn’t and hung loose everywhere else. It had a broken-in collar that wouldn’t sit flat and a pocket with a large hole rendering it useless. My name wasn’t on it—just “INMATE” screen printed on the leg and back, like I’d been turned into inventory.

The fabric smelled faintly of industrial detergent, sharp and unfamiliar, like it had been washed a hundred times but never really cleaned of what it had seen.

Even my Ariat boots were gone by then—replaced with thin socks on a cold concrete floor that made everything feel temporary and exposed.  I remember standing there in socks, realizing how fast you can go from “normal life” to “processed.”

While the jail uniform was rough, stiff, and unfamiliar, the jail shoes were worse.

Thin, flat-soled sandals, made of cheap foam, almost like something you’d wear if you had nothing to say about your own life anymore. No laces. No structure. No weight to them at all. I remember sliding my feet into them and immediately feeling wrong—like I was standing on something temporary, something that wasn’t meant to support a real person going anywhere real.

I kept thinking about my cowboy boots.

Those boots had weight. They were mine. Scuffed leather, solid soles, built for dirt roads, truck pedals, and long days where you felt every step you took. They made you feel grounded, like wherever you stood, you belonged there—even if you didn’t.

The jail shoes were the opposite. Quiet. Disposable. They didn’t grip the floor so much as accept it. Every step in them felt like I was borrowing time I didn’t control.

And then there were the leg irons.

I didn’t understand what that meant until they bent me slightly forward and fastened the chain around my ankles. The cuffs sat just above my boots—well, the shoes now—and a short metal chain linked them together. It changed everything about how I moved. My steps weren’t mine anymore. They were measured, shortened, controlled.  When I moved, it rustled loudly in the quiet hallway, every step announcing me in a way I didn’t want.

Walking felt wrong in a way I couldn’t fully explain. Not just restricted—redefined. Even standing still, I was aware of them, the faint weight at my ankles reminding me that movement wasn’t something I decided on my own anymore. It was something that had to be permitted, step by step.

Court came later.  Same jumpsuit, now wrinkled from sitting too long. Wrist restraints, waist chain, and the leg irons working together made every motion deliberate. Walking into the courthouse wasn’t walking— it felt mechanical, like I was being guided by something outside of me.

I remember thinking about how different it all was from just a few days before. From boots on gas pedals to soft jail shoes and chained steps across polished courthouse floors.

I didn’t look at anyone for long, but I felt everything: the clerk calling my name, the judge’s voice, the weight of words like “DUI” and “license suspension” landing like stones.

When my name was called, it didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt like something assigned.

When I finally spoke, my voice sounded smaller than I expected.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

That was it. No dramatic ending. No sudden fix. Just the moment I realized my life could still move forward, but not the way it had been moving before.

There was no dramatic ending. No clean break. Just the slow, unavoidable realization that the same life that once felt wide open in cowboy boots had narrowed into careful steps in leg irons—and that nothing about it was going to reset just because I wanted it to.

First you were happy when the sheriff drove you to the Hospital, just in normal handcuffs - you weren‘t that free since your arrest.

Then, after the examination, you were lead to a room in the basement, with just a really small window and really few furnishing. You were chained to bed with your right Hand and Right leg. The Remote for the tv lays on a small table - just outside your Range. In front of the locked door there‘re two cops for Security. Anytime you Need something like going to toilet you Need to call them, they Release you from your chains and stay in the room as Long as you‘re not tied to bed, also when the nurse or doctor coming in for something

The bathroom has no door, just a curtain which is really embarassing when the guard is waiting on the other side.

For meals you were released from bed but when sitting on the chair, immediatly chained to the table leg with your ankle. You used the Chance to turn on the TV at lunch but it had a timer and turned off after two hours.

In the evening the doctor came and Said he‘ll keep you in for another day and more examinations as they couldn’t find anything why you didn’t feel good. When the nurse came to turn the light off, one of the cops told you that they are going home now. If there‘s any reason to unchain you for the night a Police patrol will come from the nearby station. he told you, better not to make trouble, if you don’t want to be put in more restraints and points at a box with many white Straps in the corner. Then the nurse put you in a diaper for the night in front of the cops which was the Most embarassing Experience you ever remember.

The day was horror - no movement, no privacy, all results from the doctor immediatly sent to the Sheriffs Office. You Hope to Fall asleep with your uncomfortable restraints and Hope to be back in your cell and the chaingang soon

Last thanksgiving I ate this, the same meal I eat every day, honestly I don't even know if I can call it a meal, every day I eat three meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner, as you can see from the pictures the meals look disgusting and they really are disgusting, I remember on my first day in prison I wanted to throw up because it tasted so bad, after a while you get used to it but that doesn't make it a reasonably good meal, they probably don't spend a lot to feed us and give us only the minimum to survive. Well, at least we're not forced to eat nutraloaf every day, I guess that's something to be grateful for.