Dark Niche

                        (photo: prisonphone.co.uk)

He mumbles obscenities in the air. He also throw punches to the man on the moon. Cursing is not new to him as he does this often to the shadows in his assigned cell. The others who are with him often dismiss him as weird…his companions even mouth the word CRAZY to each other. This is not the place for me! That inner voice screams like it’s the end of the world. Indeed, this thing, this cell is the apocalypse.

His world before was vast. The opportunities were as clear as the crystal…similar to the thing they would soon put on foil, heated and inhaled. The happiness and enjoyment seemed to be endless. The world was like a wide area where there was no tomorrow…only the unequaled happiness one could experience through parties, booze and, of course, drugs.

But suddenly, the lights went off.

It was early dawn when he heard muffled movements outside. He was roused realizing he was in an acquaintance’s house. They passed out after the blissful combination of rum and methamphetamine. His tongue was still bitter and white, when he checked it, with the residue of their happy moments. He noticed he was in a room with male friends who were still in oblivion. One had his penis half-exposed from his jocks out of the promiscuity of their party. He nudged the friend beside him. He just grumbled and continued his dazed sleep.

The police arrived with guns and a search warrant. He was pinned down on the floor with his companion. The half-naked one was pushed hard beside him with the exposed cock mockingly facing him. It was fast. The cold embrace of metal on his arms and the jerk towards the police mobile were so swift that his presence in the local PNP headquarters was surreal. He heard some of his companions complaining but the word RAID reverberated in his head.

He was then introduced to his new world, his cell.

The odor of refuse and sweat merged like a nightmare. There were some cockroaches whispering to him as if they have a secret they share. The indifferent expressions of the inmates was chilling. A dark intent was lurking at the back of their stoic expressions. He wanted to flee; he wished this was just a bad dream and he prayed that he would be awakened from it. But the cold floor of the cell made love to his feet like a long-lost lover and the eerie silence of the place told him that all was real.

He wept for the first week. He felt unsustainable pain in his heart for the next months. He could not imagine that his life will waste in the claustrophobic room. He started feeling regret: that bitter feeling of blaming the self and bargaining to the unknown force happened.

But his God was not listening. He started to feel numb inside. Slowly, the life in him started to fade away like his dreamed twilight and dusk. He started to see the world differently. He adapted to his small niche.

Yet, interludes come. The anger and regret in his subconscious mind sometimes peep. He would then give the middle finger to the air and hiss on the wall…He mumbles obscenities in the air. He also throw punches to the man on the moon. Cursing is not new to him as he does this often to the shadows in his assigned cell.

This is probably his hell. The atonement would soon come when his deaf God hears his silent screams. How soon? No one knows.

(Got these thoughts when I held an inmate in my arms with tears overflowing when I visited a prison facility lately…)