Confinement
“Is anyone out there?” the prisoner calls out, frustrated. He couldn’t tell how much time had passes since he’d set eyes on another human face, heard a conscious voice beyond his own echo down the dark, damp corridor.
Don’t they know who I am? He loathes being ignored.
The prisoner presses his face against the iron bars, forcing the flesh to pull and distort as he looks for fuck all. Water droplets fall from the ceiling and he wonders if this is all a part of his penance. Of course it’s illegal to torture inmates in the technical sense, but why not slowly lead their minds to madness the way he used to draw his horse to water? Quite clever. Cruel and unusual. Then again, abandoning someone in solitary. Leaving them to starve to death in the pits of society and the world could be nothing more than laziness. Incompetence, even.
What was that twat’s name? He asked himself, imagining the geriatric guard with a face like a clock — judgemental — who shuffled the muck they called food at regular enough intervals to keep track of the hours. Something must have happened…
The slog of time passing has never been kind to the prisoner but what punishment of god is not a gift? He has a rather remarkable memory paired with a mind prone to wander and boredom always arrives too quickly. Like Autumn after a late…
