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 Virginiaâwindows 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 didnât feel like it belonged to me.
My name is Chase. Iâm 21. Before that night, Iâd 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 youngâclose enough in age that it almost made it worse. Not angry. Just⌠done with this kind of night.
âBeen drinking tonight?â he asked.
I remember laughing once, like it was a joke that would fix itself if I treated it lightly. It didnât. The field test felt humiliating in a way I couldnât explain yetâI just knew I was failing something I couldnât undo in real time.
When he told me to turn around, I remember thinking Iâd be back in my truck in a few minutes. I wasnât.
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 wasnât 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.Â
Intake was fluorescent lights and paperwork that made everything feel official in a way that didnât leave room for denial. They took everything that felt like mineâboots, belt, shirt, walletâand 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 didnât breathe right, the kind that clung where it shouldnât and hung loose everywhere else. It had a broken-in collar that wouldnât sit flat and a pocket with a large hole rendering it useless. My name wasnât on itâjust âINMATEâ screen printed on the leg and back, like Iâd 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 thenâreplaced with thin socks on a cold concrete floor that made everything feel temporary and exposed. Â I remember standing there in socks, realizing how fast you can go from ânormal lifeâ to âprocessed.â
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 youâd 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 wrongâlike I was standing on something temporary, something that wasnât 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 thereâeven if you didnât.
The jail shoes were the opposite. Quiet. Disposable. They didnât grip the floor so much as accept it. Every step in them felt like I was borrowing time I didnât control.
And then there were the leg irons.
I didnât understand what that meant until they bent me slightly forward and fastened the chain around my ankles. The cuffs sat just above my bootsâwell, the shoes nowâand a short metal chain linked them together. It changed everything about how I moved. My steps werenât 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 didnât want.
Walking felt wrong in a way I couldnât fully explain. Not just restrictedâredefined. Even standing still, I was aware of them, the faint weight at my ankles reminding me that movement wasnât 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 wasnât walkingâ 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 didnât look at anyone for long, but I felt everything: the clerk calling my name, the judgeâs voice, the weight of words like âDUIâ and âlicense suspensionâ landing like stones.
When my name was called, it didnât feel like mine anymore. It felt like something assigned.
When I finally spoke, my voice sounded smaller than I expected.
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 ironsâand that nothing about it was going to reset just because I wanted it to.
On the way back to the county jail, the cuffs were still there. The difference was, now I understood why.
