First POV
6:30 AM
Buzz!
A long, grating sound echoed throughout the prison, jolting me awake. The harsh, fluorescent lights flickered on, blinding me momentarily. As my senses began to return, I shot out of bed, instinctively making it with crisp corners and neat folds. I rearranged my meager personal belongings..my few letters, a worn-out book, and a small photo of my family that I kept tucked away. Each item was a reminder of what lay beyond these cold, concrete walls. The last thing I wanted was to incur the wrath of the guards, known for their brutal and unpredictable punishments.
A few minutes later, the clang of metal heralded the start of another monotonous day.
"Roll call!" a guard bellowed, his voice cutting through the early morning quiet.
The sound of cell doors opening echoed like an impending doom. Stepping out into the narrow corridor, I stood at attention, my heart racing. Among the other inmates, Marcus was an exception....a special case. His medical condition required constant vigilance, and he was usually escorted by a nurse every morning. Most evenings, he'd return from the infirmary, but on any given day, he could be gone overnight.
As we all shuffled to line up in front of our cells, I spotted the guard approaching. He moved with a swagger, a baton held menacingly in his hand. You could sense trouble a mile away with him; he had that unmistakable air of cruelty about him, accentuated by the twisted grin plastered on his face. The disdain in his eyes, aimed at all of us, made my stomach churn.
Bam!
He struck an inmate standing just a few feet away, the sound resonating through the corridor like a gunshot. The inmate's cries echoed, his voice rising in desperation as he shouted, "Why are your personal items disorganized?" Each word was punctuated by the vicious blows that followed.
My stomach sunk as I watched him lash out at a few more inmates in line before it was my turn. Terror gripped me; I knew what was coming if I didn't think fast. My mind raced, searching for an escape, a way to fly under the radar.
Finally, it was my turn.
He approached, and his gaze was dark and predatory.
"Ho ho ho, what do we have here?!" he chuckled, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.
"Morning, chief," I stammered, bowing my head, hoping my submission would quell his desire for violence.
".....you ...are different from the others," he said, drawing closer, his breath chilling me further.
To my relief, he skipped over me, moving on to the next inmate.
I let out a quiet, shaky exhale, my heart racing as adrenaline coursed through my veins. The dark cloud looming over the prison felt a little less oppressive now.
I recalled Marcus's advice: "Behave like the prey. If you act like a little dog that they find boring, they'll leave you alone."
With that thought in mind, I smiled lightly, returning to my cell to gather my toiletries and prepare for the bathroom routine.
As I approached the bathrooms, I felt a sense of foreboding wash over me again. The line was long, and I braced myself. After what felt like an eternity, it was finally my batch's turn. We shuffled into the bathroom, which featured overhead showers lining the walls.
Inside, the atmosphere was raw and chaotic. Bare-butt men swaggered and strutted around. Some groped each other playfully, their laughter roaring louder than the clanging pipes above. Others stood still, faces shrouded in concentration as they dealt with their own business. A few leaned against the walls, their eyes glimmering with a predatory hunger as they scanned the room.
Cornering another inmate....slim, slender, and perhaps too trusting....some vile noises echoed around us, proving that this place was as unpredictable as the guards outside. Most treated the bathroom chaos as ordinary, laughing and jeering at the disturbing sounds of the victims' humiliation.
With a firm reminder of Marcus's warnings swirling in my head—
"In the bathroom, do not look around. Face down, mind your business. Wash up quickly and get the hell out"
I took a deep breath. I stripped down, quickly lathering my skin with soap and scrubbing down intimate parts until every inch felt clean. After rinsing off, I towel-dried myself as quickly as possible before slipping on my prison uniform and heading to the mess hall for breakfast.
Entering the mess hall, I faced another long line, but at least I was early. "Glad I am early," I muttered, relief trickling through me.
Lining up, I felt the familiar mix of anxiety and hunger. When my turn arrived, I stepped forward, receiving a steaming bowl of porridge. The sight of the warm food stirred a deep pang in my stomach, and without hesitation, I dug in. The taste was uneven some areas too bland, others annoyingly sweet but hot food here was considered a luxury. I devoured my portion, grateful for whatever sustenance I could manage.
After breakfast, it was time for labor. Today, I was assigned to plumbing, tasked with replacing a few metal pipes in a desolate, rarely patrolled section of the prison an area where security was distinctly lax.
12:00 PM
Buzz!
Another buzzer rang, signaling the end of the dreary lunch period, paving the way for yard time.
As we shuffled towards the playground, a fenced-in square field located just outside the main prison building, anxiety hung thick in the air. Marcus called it
"The Battleground". A fitting name, given the chaos that often erupted in those confines.
The yard was a crucible where gangs formed and disputes ignited, where alliances thrived, and loyalties shifted with the wind. It was a deadly arena that displayed the harsh realities of prison life where many lost their lives due to violence.
Uneasiness settled over me as I searched for a scanty wooden bleacher in an inconspicuous corner. I perched there, drawing on Marcus's teachings, observing like a hawk. I watched every movement, every scuffle, taking notes on body language, subtle exchanges, and the unspoken politics that governed this brutal space.
Who was being hunted? Who commanded fear? Which groups held power, and which were crumbling under pressure? The loud clamor of voices clashed against the quiet tension as I carefully analyzed the behaviors around me. It became clear that brute force alone wouldn't give me survival here; I could easily find a blade in my gut or be shot without warning.
Patience was my ally; I had to be patient, silent, and above all, clever. I needed to be like a fox, my movements calculating, my approach stealthy. And for my safety, for the plan I was shaping in the depths of my restless mind, I was willing to adapt, to hide, and to survive, no matter the cost.
As I sat on that bleacher, everything around me pulsed with energy the shouts, the threats, and the camaraderie that could just as easily shift to betrayal. I steadied my breathing, blending into the shadows as I continued my silent observation, waiting for the right moment to make my move.