*Scrawled on the cement wall in one of the cells in C block, in chalk*

I found this piece of chalk on the ground in front of my cell, it was wrapped in some red cloth. Why? I stared at it for sometime, not knowing what to do with it, was this a joke, another way to taunt me? I don’t know, they’ve broken my spirit so much that I don’t care.

This piece of chalk that I hold in my hands is the only form of entertainment I have had in…I can’t even remember, I don’t want to remember, I don’t care to remember about then.

My cell is my life now, it’s my past, my present and future. I was put here and I’ll stay here. This piece of chalk in my hand is the only way for me to express myself while I sit on the cold ground where I belong and still I feel greedy and spoiled, someone has given me this luxury, for what reason, I can’t think of, but what I can say is that they are toying with me. They know what I am writing, perhaps? Yes, that’s why they’ve given it to me, to break me, to make to talk, to make me confess, on this wall, in front of me, this is my trial and this piece of chalk my microphone.

A piece of chalk for me to write everything is ridiculous though, pathetic even. I’ve nearly finished this stick and I have just been talking about myself. It was nice while it las