Here I am. This place. This prison. Body and soul trapped behind the cold of steel and iron. Darkness. No one is out there. They give me food. I see no faces. I cry at night. Weep to myself till I am exhausted. Wake up. Cry out for hours. Need help. But they wont listen.
Here for no good reason. Not me. Didn?t kill them. I am innocent I tell you. The pain in my chest grew stronger as the days, weeks and months went by. Now it is a matter of years. I have grown used to the pain.
Head rests between bars. Darkness beyond the one light in my cell, high up at the unreachable roof. Blinding white around me, inky blackness beyond. I hear no other prisoners. This place was made for me. I curl up on the floor and weep once more.
One thing can keep me alive. One thing, a memory still vivid and bright in my head. I can imagine her kiss now, the sweet taste of passion lingering on the bottom of my lips. I see myself, years ago, longing for more of those kisses. Now, I would savour even a peck on my bloodied cheek. My memory of her beautiful face, her soft skin is the only thing stopping me killing myself right now.
They beat me. Every week. They want a confession. One comes in, with a mask. Hits me, punches me. My blood spays everywhere. They must wonder how I can make enough to sustain life. But I am pale, weak. Old. I can taste the dried copper of vital fluid still on my cracked lips. I hate this.
But I cannot confess. I am innocent. I loved them. All of those children. I couldn?t have. I never would have. Head between the bars again. Tears soak my face. I still love her. Her face, her smile. A flickering image of guilt and shame. I love her so much. Still.
The day. Seven days since the last. Again, he walks to my cell. Mask on, he is unseen. Says those words again.
"Ready to confess yet, old man?"
I spit at the ground. He unlocks the door and punches me. I am on the floor. Nothing from me. He wants cries, begging. He won?t get it. Unsatisfied, he kicks me. Again. Again. Steel boots. Intense pain. Nothing. He leaves. All alone again. I will get out.
The madness is creeping up on me, touching me suggestively. The crying has been replaced with manic laughter. All through the night, the laughing never stops. I don?t sleep.
I hear voices. Tell me to do something, something terrible. I listen. Agree with them. I walk to the bars. Rest my head against them one last time. Pull back, slam forwards. The clang rings out, ominous. Then nothing. I am gone. I am free.