Desribe the room you are in
It has been a decade since I have seen the sun. The tomb I am in mocks me down to an apology of a man. Where am I, you ask? The room I am situated in is a jail cell that I share with four others. The cell is not huge and yet, it is not small; it seems perfect for five people ready to die.
Unlike other cells, ours is dark and damp. No external lights reaches into our eyes due to four windowless walls that encloses us. The only light we do see is through a pipe that leads outside. It serves as a brutal reminder that freedom is just behind a thick, metallic wall. The walls are messy and drawings are emblazoned upon them. The drawings are not of mad men; they are more of men who regret.
On the side I'm facing, there is a peculiarly eeery drawing of a little girl. Her dress is pretty, he hair is short and her smile haunting. On the wall behind, there is a drawing of a tombstone with 'RIP' scratched upon it. The wall opposite my friend Pietro is marked with a long poem that we take turns to read as we get ready for the final hour. The last lines read as follows, 'I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul,'.
Beds are scattered around the room; no one ever sleeps though. The beds are as uncomfortable as the spikes in hell. They all have stains upon them which we assume belong to the newly departed. The pillows do not resemble pillows; they resemble more of white wooden blocks. In one corner of the rectangular room is a hole for one to do his business. Next to the hole is a wooden pail filled with water that is refilled every morning.
There is a pungent door that fills our lungs whenever we breath. It is putrid and unforgiving; some days it smells like garbage, other days it smells like human excremental. The odour is so strong that sometimes we clog our noses with what is left of our shirt. Other than the agonising smell, there is one more thing that we cannot stand.
The jail has been around since the 1800's and naturally, pipes are leaking. However, there is one pipe above us that keeps on leaking. Drip, drip, drip. The sound drives us mad! The constant dripping seems to be punishing us for the crimes of our past and we absolutely despise it. I need to stop writing now, the guards are calling. As I write these last words, my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces. Goodbye World.
It has been a decade since I have seen the sun. The tomb I am in mocks me down to an apology of a man. Where am I, you ask? The room I am situated in is a jail cell that I share with four others. The cell is not huge and yet, it is not small; it seems perfect for five people ready to die.
Unlike other cells, ours is dark and damp. No external lights reaches into our eyes due to four windowless walls that encloses us. The only light we do see is through a pipe that leads outside. It serves as a brutal reminder that freedom is just behind a thick, metallic wall. The walls are messy and drawings are emblazoned upon them. The drawings are not of mad men; they are more of men who regret.
On the side I'm facing, there is a peculiarly eeery drawing of a little girl. Her dress is pretty, he hair is short and her smile haunting. On the wall behind, there is a drawing of a tombstone with 'RIP' scratched upon it. The wall opposite my friend Pietro is marked with a long poem that we take turns to read as we get ready for the final hour. The last lines read as follows, 'I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul,'.
Beds are scattered around the room; no one ever sleeps though. The beds are as uncomfortable as the spikes in hell. They all have stains upon them which we assume belong to the newly departed. The pillows do not resemble pillows; they resemble more of white wooden blocks. In one corner of the rectangular room is a hole for one to do his business. Next to the hole is a wooden pail filled with water that is refilled every morning.
There is a pungent door that fills our lungs whenever we breath. It is putrid and unforgiving; some days it smells like garbage, other days it smells like human excremental. The odour is so strong that sometimes we clog our noses with what is left of our shirt. Other than the agonising smell, there is one more thing that we cannot stand.
The jail has been around since the 1800's and naturally, pipes are leaking. However, there is one pipe above us that keeps on leaking. Drip, drip, drip. The sound drives us mad! The constant dripping seems to be punishing us for the crimes of our past and we absolutely despise it. I need to stop writing now, the guards are calling. As I write these last words, my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces. Goodbye World.
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