PitBabeS2, Chapter 1 pg10

 pg10

   KENTA:

   They say, “Time in prison feels twice as long as time outside.” I think I only recently discovered why.

   Because here… every day is the same.

   That’s the reason.

   Wake up, count the morning hours, exercise, eat, clean, sit in some corner, pace in a confined circle, try not to stare at anyone by mistake—because you never know who’ll get pissed off if your gaze crosses theirs. Lunch and dinner are served on time every day. Line up orderly with a tray, and no matter how vile the food tastes, you swallow it. Shower in a bathroom filthier than a sewage dump alongside a hundred other inmates. No right to personal space. If you look average or worse, you’re lucky. But if you’re good-looking, especially the clean-cut, rich-kid type, you’re singled out for extra attention. I won’t go into more detail, but the first time I saw those scenes with my own eyes, I vomited until there was nothing left in me.

   Everything I’ve described happens every day, with only minor variations. At its core, it’s like a template day, copied and pasted according to each person’s sentence. Everyone lives in a loop, counting days for the first few months. After that, hope fades, and no one bothers scratching lines on the cell walls anymore. That’s the first piece of evidence that this place truly deserves to be called “hell.”

   The afternoon dragged on with little to do. Some inmates were called to work—mowing grass, trimming trees, painting, moving things, or doing various odd jobs as the guards commanded. Some liked being summoned; it was better than sitting idle. Others, like me, preferred doing nothing. I’m in the latter group. I don’t like mingling with other prisoners or sucking up to the guards, even though that’s the easiest way to live comfortably in prison. So, the old wooden bench by the fence is my favorite spot. Just lying back, gazing at the sky through the trees, is more than enough for a punished life like mine.

   “Hey! Is that mine?!”

   A voice shattered my peace. I chose to close my eyes instead of getting up to see what was happening in the open yard. The cause was always one of a few things. Judging by the voice and the buzzing crowd that followed, it was probably another fight over something trivial. Of course, this wasn’t the first time. In prison, everything is a competition from the start. Some things seem grandiose, like in famous prison-break movies—valuable items, physical dominance, or freedom. Others are so petty it’s like everyone’s reverted to apes. Anything can spark a brawl: a favorite bench, a bathroom with just a tattered plastic curtain, or even a tamarind-flavored candy that smells like vomit. Every day, someone ends up with a busted eyebrow over something pointless. This was just another small skirmish, and I had no interest in knowing what those stray dogs were breaking their noses over.

   “It’s yours? If it’s yours, how’d it end up in my hands?” A grating voice with a cocky tone irritated me slightly. I tried to ignore it, but it still wormed its way into my ears.

   “Hey! You bastard!”

   I couldn’t make out the other guy’s response as the crowd’s noise grew louder. But it wasn’t hard to guess—arguing over who owned whatever it was, laced with a string of profanities. Since coming here, I’ve heard more curses and new slang than I ever expected. If I compiled them, it’d be as thick as a translated novel. But I’m not writing a book about this. What’s interesting about prison stories? They’re a dime a dozen. What interests me more is the outside world. How will I live once I’m out? That’s the book I’d want to read.

   The commotion from the yard grew louder. Looked like the two mad dogs were going at it. I gave it three minutes tops before the guards came rushing in with batons, blowing their ear-piercing whistles, scattering the onlookers in every direction. The two instigators would face punishment as per protocol—maybe cleaning the bathrooms or, worse, solitary confinement for a couple of days to straighten them out. Then they’d be released, ready to strut around again. Thinking about it, it’s kind of funny. People who break society’s rules are locked up in prison, and those who break prison’s rules get locked up again. Layered imprisonment. Why does no one ever say how embarrassing that is?

   “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

   As expected, the guards came to tame the mad dogs. The afternoon show ended quickly, and my peace returned without me having to lift a finger.

   “Damn it!”

   A few minutes later, someone’s curse rang out nearby. Everything had quieted down—so quiet I could hear a pebble rolling across the ground, clunking against the leg of the wooden bench I was lying on before stopping.

   “Pretty comfy, huh?” The voice came closer, a few steps nearer. It sounded like its owner was standing over me, blocking the faint sunlight that had been warming my face. “Ever think about helping out? Or are you just gonna float above all the problems?”

   “I told you… don’t act like you know me,” I replied lazily, eyes still closed. This way, my mind stayed calmer than if I had to look at his smug face. His voice alone was disruptive enough.

Previous

Next