Monday, January 16, 2006

Prison 1

The heavy metal door slams shut with a click. I stand there, hesitant, not really believing this is it. I keep thinking that somehow the door will open once again and they will let me out, that they will tell me it has all been a cruel joke and that I can leave. I stand there, immobile, in front of the metal door, for a full twenty minutes before I finally accept the fact that it won’t open any time soon.
I look around my cell, which up to now I have not really taken in. It is a concrete box, slightly over four by six, empty apart from two benches, a toilet and a sink. A small grated window, high above on the furthest wall, lets a little stale light in. I realize that the two benches are actually beds, choose one and lie down. I stare at the grey ceiling and force myself not to think about anything for a while.
I wonder whether the other bed will be left empty or whether I will be force to share the narrow confines of this cell with another unlucky soul.
I get up and walk around the cell. I pace to and through, following the course walls around and around, feeling ever more anxious and frustrated. I think of the lonely panther I used to watch in the zoo in villa Borghese, and wonder whether I too will develop that haunted feeling in my eyes, that nostalgic gait which seemed to overflow with repressed sorrow and desperation.
I lie down once again on my hard bench and, staring at the crumbling ceiling, begin to think.


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