A Number

Dear Diary,

The sun rises, casting a warm glow through the narrow window of my cell. I've lost track of time, but the days blur together like the faded graffiti on the damp walls. The stench of sweat, urine, and despair hangs heavy in the air. It's been months since they threw me in here, and I've become a ghost in this concrete tomb.

The morning routine is a monotonous dance. The clanging of metal against metal as the guards unlock the cell doors. The shuffle of bare feet on the cold floor. We line up like cattle, waiting for our meager breakfast – a watery porridge that tastes like regret. I've forgotten what real food tastes like.

Outside, the courtyard is a chaotic mix of humanity. Men with haunted eyes, their faces etched with pain and resignation. The yard is our only respite from the suffocating cell. I find a spot near the cracked fountain, its water murky and stagnant. The sun beats down, scorching my skin, but I welcome the warmth. It's the closest thing to freedom I have.

I watch the others – the lifers, the drug mules, the political dissidents. We're a motley crew, bound by our crimes and our fate. Some keep to themselves, lost in their thoughts. Others form alliances, trading cigarettes and secrets. Survival is a currency here, and trust is a rare commodity.

The guards patrol the perimeter, their eyes scanning for trouble. They're corrupt, like everything else in this place. Small monies can buy you a better cell, a smuggled message, or a moment alone with the rusty faucet. But I have nothing to offer. My pockets are empty, my soul even emptier.

I write letters in my head – to my family, my friends, anyone who might remember me. But the words remain trapped, suffocated by the weight of guilt. Guilt for the choices that led me here, for the lives I've ruined. I wonder if they know I'm alive, if they've given up hope.

The nights are the worst. The darkness creeps in, swallowing me whole. The sounds of distant cries, the clanging of bars, the whispered prayers – they haunt my dreams. I lie on the thin mattress, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The rats scuttle across the floor, their beady eyes mocking me. I've become one of them – desperate, hungry, forgotten.

Today, I found a cockroach crawling on the wall. I watched it, mesmerized. It scurried along the cracks, defying the odds. Maybe there's a lesson in that – survival against all odds. But I'm not sure I want to survive this place. Death seems like a kinder fate.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the noise, the smell, the memories. I imagine a different life – one where I'm free, where the sun kisses my skin without judgment. But reality crashes down, suffocating me. I'm a number, a statistic, a forgotten soul.

I write these words, knowing they might never find their way out of here. But maybe someday someone will read my story, shed a tear, and remember that I existed. But for now, I'll keep breathing, keep surviving, keep counting the days until I'm nothing more than a faded memory in this hellhole.