"All prose and poetry presented in this blog bear no resemblance to any animate/inanimate beings. These are solely figments of my very scattered imagination (at most times).
Those who do feel a close connection to what is being depicted, need to stay out of my imagination then!
Happy reading!"

Monday, February 15, 2010

The Prison Cell

The walls were dirty and grimy. The stench of blood, the dried mud on the walls and the floors, the smell of stale food and sweat lingering in the air - the loud snores of the sleeping men, the dull thud of the beefy guard's footfalls, the soft cackles and sniggers of the crudes ogling the lady gaoler.

The prison was just another place which reflected the ugliness of his life. He'd started early, making his way to the most-wanted. His name featured on every cop's hit-list. He'd stooped low, lost his pride, given up all hope and learnt that life despite all its euphemistic incarnations was one ugly sordid mess. To him, existence was just something that was an everyday affair. He never questioned any thing, it was as if he didn't have a mind of his own. It was as though he was programmed to do everything on autopilot - nothing came to him naturally.

The guard rattled the bars on his cell. 'Sleep time' he barked and was on his way again. The crudes sitting on the bunk in the opposite cell, fell silent for all of two moments, smirked and went back to having lascivious thoughts about the opposite sex.

In the corner, he could see his small dirty plate of food - untouched, unpalatable. A family of rats had settled themselves in his plate.

He knew his sins were unpardonable, yet he'd begged for mercy, pled guilty (wanting to suffer for his actions perhaps) and had been penalized with solitary confinement.

Anybody who saw him would know that he was a hoodlum. His dark scarred face, bloodshot slits for eyes, a snarling mouth...he looked more beast than man. His appearance had always worked to his advantage. People shuddered when they came anywhere near him. Children ran a mile when they saw him approaching.

She had done so too. Her shudder of fear had completely undone him. Her initial wariness had given way to plain fright anytime he came anywhere near her.

He learned to love her from a distance. A man in his field, could never betray any sign on emotion - it spelled weakness. And he was no ninny.

And then that dark night, in a dingy alley he found her broken, scarred, mauled, dead. He'd scooped her up in his arms, the rain magnified his despair, his helplessness.
He hunted them all, he killed them all. They'd taken her life, he took theirs.

He'd then walked into the nearest station and surrendered himself - never walked out a free man again.

The next morning when the guard entered his cell, he was dead.

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