Over the decades I’ve been in prison, I’ve seen firsthand how communication with the outside world comes at a price. All too often, prisoners are forced to use their blood as currency just to use the phone.

I learned this lesson early. In 1994, at age 16, I was locked down on Rikers Island in C-74 Adolescent Jail. We were known as “adolescents at war.” With only two phones in each house of 40 or so prisoners, the violence over making calls never ended. Some prisoners got stabbed, lacerated or busted to white meat. Their stitches ranged from 20 to a buck fifty.

As the new guy in 4 Main — a unit nicknamed “House of Pain” — it was much easier to write a letter. But I needed to call home and tell my momma I was OK and the date of my next court appearance. Before I could even touch a phone no one was using, another prisoner stepped to me. “You get six minutes on the jack. Get yours in the morning or you can get this right now,” he threatened in a thick Bushwick, Brooklyn, accent.

My opponent’s words held no value to me. Not even his 10 or so Latin King comrades seemed costly; I had spent dudes like them in minutes. But the broken rug cutter in his right hand did have the power to make a hefty withdrawal of my blood. I looked to the correctional officer in the officer bubble, hoping she would buy me some time. But she raised the newspaper she wasn't supposed to be reading higher, until she completely vanished.

I didn't call home that night. Neither did my opponent. We fought. We hurt each other for the right to use the phone.

Read the full article about prison phone time by Corey Devon Arthur at The Marshall Project.