Even the walls now were completely daubed with my poetry. Full of all the feelings I feel as a thoughtless feelingless soul. I wondered at times, why hadn't I lost my feelings when I had lost everything kindred to it. I was a man who lived a life of the dead. I lived the life which was inexhaustable, passing through an endless black tunnel, through which no light could ever surpass. There was no aim, no destination circumscribed with it.
The only thing I got from it was, everyday. Everyday which I had to live. It was like the God of goodness, the just ruler, looked down at me from the heavens, a mocking smile on his face, as if he blessed me my everyday, as it was supposed to be a mighty boon.
Yet I'd cup my hands and raise them up to the chipped ceiling, lean against the cracked grey wall, knees bent, and whimper with all my might. My rotten sinful tears would bombard on the floor below, strewn with poker cards, malodrous rags, all of them heavily stained with crime, rubbish that lay everywhere, stale bread and cheap broken slippers.
Everyday, whatever I pleaded the God for, most of the time for this agony to end, he returned my adjures back to me, like there was no place for my wishes, my wants and needs anymore. Yet if I had something to do, it was to ask Him for his assisstance which he had determined to never lend me ever again. The night, which turned my everyday in a irresistably painful state, like breathing in thorny oxygen, that was the final night He leant me his help. Only if he hadn't.
The sun rose from the right corner everyday which I couldn't even believe as my life didn't even spared me to watch the nature. I craved to watch the sky and the moon, gaze at the twinkling stars, the flowers being sucked by radiant butterflies, spiders clinging from the silver threads. Yet all that was now, written in the book of my fortune was broken plaster, impregnable bars, walls smothered with unkempt writings, all nonsense yet instilled with incredible depression, the foul stench of sins and faces that were as vexatious, repugnant as the satan itself.
Everyday, I woke up with shrill screeches of the bell. It reminded me how my mother used to run her tender fingertips in my hair, gently calling out, "Wake up. Time for school honey." Things do change once you finally grow up to be a man. Like it changed drastically for me. Then I'd get up from the creaky steel beds where more than twenty men lay in a row. It was almost unbearable to breath.
Before we even got something to eat, 'they' would come barging in, grabbing the skinnier ones by their collars and forcing all of us to form a rough queue. I often dreamt we were all making this queue to hell. Where we'd be done for once and all. At least then we'd have a purpose which is better than endless waiting.
Then they would take us out in a much larger hall where theyd make us do different jobs. Sometimes washing the entire place. They'd hit us badly at intervals. Two deep cuts under my right rib and numerous scars at my back from thick leather belts. Everytime they make me face the wall and bend down, pulling my shirt off, I shut my eyes tightly and recollect the memories of that night which was the last night I saw the sky. What an inky sky it was. It was as if the entire skies were echoing the image of a dead black sea, as still as the profane night itself. It makes me bear the pain as I tell myself repeatedly that I deserve this, with every whip of the belt, cutting open the scars that were starting to grow skin back. They'd never let me heal.
When we return, most of them are grinning and joking like they don't care what kind of blasphemous life they are living. Maybe that's why they play poker every single night and im the only one who sits in the corner, my hands locked on tresses of my hair, pulling them for hours until the room is quite enough for me to sleep. I call that time, the flashback, as I recall my past and regret about it in that certain time of the day. If only I hadn't come across that mafia group, if only they hadn't helped me when I was bankrupt, if only I won't have agreed to pay them back by dispatching hundreds of unsullied virtuous souls off on a journey which I longed to begin for me. If only this, if only that.
It would be the most terrible moment of my everyday as I'd start snivelling turbulently and my throat would be drier than the desert, prickly like the cactus, and even the trifling tears that escape from the corners of my immoral eyes and fall on my lips couldn't even dampen it.
My life is like an endless black film. It keeps on reeling, I conjecture everyday if tomorrow or today would be my last breath that my lungs spare, nonethless with every passing day, I'm starting to lose hope as if the world is perpetual, or maybe my world is written to be ceaseless.
I live in a world none can surpass, wish I couldve been clear as glass, Im a sinner I admit, I have no desire to live, what is a life behind these bars? When all you could do, is regret at your past! My scrawny arm wobbled and I finished chalking the lines on the only unoccupied space on the wall, above the bunk bead.
Maybe the God of goodness finally decided to pity me because five minutes later, one of the prison's incharge came in to tell me that I was sentenced to death. That was the last time in a long while I finally got to see the sky, which was still as inky as I had remembered.