Who was telling the story? Whose story was it anyway?
The words fluttered and flew in the wind.
I turned away from the window and sat back down on my so called bed.

I was loosing my memory.

I thought as I rubbed my face.
I had already lost my senses.

Memories were the only thing that helped me survive through this.
Tears of anger and helplessness formed in my eyes.

I started thinking of the times before I came here.

Those reckless days where I feared nothing. The sun would shine bright over my head and the moon gave way in the dark. Until I was brought here, between those four walls.

The walls too close to be even called a room.
30 years, 5 months and 3 days of leaving in this same cell was taking a toll on me. Maybe, that’s what they wanted to happen.
30 years, 5 months and 3 days had gone by since they had brandished me as a terrorist without proof.

I had carved every nook and corner of the cell to pass me time, to motivate me and to count the days.
There was no space left now. Leaving me alone with my thoughts forever.
I only wished to die everyday and night. I don’t even know what’s a day or night. Everything is the same.
All I can see from the window is the sky and occasionally some birds.
The window is very small and high up on the wall. But even the size of the window couldn’t stop sunlight from lighting up my room and my day. It made me realise that your size, shape, experience doesn’t matter if you have the inner strength, the trust in yourself and the will to do it.

But sadly I have lost my will, strength and trust to get out of this cell.

Prison does that to you.
Grey and gloomy is what the prison has to offer.
You are left with your own mind and your scars. Scars, Both emotional and physical.

You forget what sequence of event led you here. Who had been loyal and who were not becomes a paradox.
What you did, where you come from doesn’t matter here. All that matters is you are here.


Food is a formality. You’re fed so you can live longer in your own misery.


I remember having it when I was kid. But the later years are now blur.
I had times when I slept for days and days and had gone without sleep for months.
I would stare away at the grey walls in front of me for hours without blinking. Thinking about random things. Things I can’t sort out as a memory or imagination.

The thought made me want to cry. Made want to be angry. Made me want to kill myself. But no emotions came out. I am all but numb. Nothing is left of me.

My soul has already escaped me. Only the shell remains. Speechless, motionless and emotionless.

I slumped back on the floor, staring at my food with flies hovering over it. I just laid there for hours.

Staring at it as the ants and flies do their work. A weird sound came from outside my cell, first I assumed it as my imagination. But it happened again. The sound kept repeating in a pattern.
I sat up, I knew the sound. The sound of footsteps. The footsteps were coming towards me. There was a sudden creaking sound. I realised it was the sound of the door of my cell. It made a loud and creak as it opened. I closed my eyes at the sudden amount of light. It was blinding. I laughed at myself. All these years I wanted to see light and now I finally see it, I can’t handle it.

Footsteps sounded again, as someone stood near my head.

I did not look who and what. I just did not want to.

A boot nudged my face.

"Hey, hey!" the owner of the boot said. "Wake up! Wake up!" he kept nudging my face until I removed my hand. "I have a notice for you." He said in a harsh tone. As if he was forced to speak.

"You are going to be executed tomorrow."

Getting no response, he nudged my face again.

"Did you hear?"

I did something I hadn’t done in the past 30 years.

I laughed.

I laughed loudly and with all my heart. The jailor muttered something and left. But I did not stop laughing. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I laughed harder than I ever had. My face, chest, stomach, my whole body was hurting but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

Because there was nothing left to be executed. What was to be executed had already left.

My soul.

All they’d be executing tomorrow will be a shell, a void.

-Naimi Bhansali