Faceless
Dear Diary,
There's a certain kind of agony that accompanies inspections, an agony that digs its claws deeper into my already battered spirit.
I hate it when my meager possessions, the only semblance of humanity in this barren hole, are subjected to the invasive scrutiny of the guards. Every footstep down the corridor when there's an inspection reminds me of the impending violation.
I sat there, perched on the edge of my lumpy mattress, my fingers tracing invisible patterns on the coarse fabric of my uniform, desperately trying to quell the rising tide of anxiety.
And then they came – a pair of faceless guards, their expressions as cold and unyielding as these metal bars. They tore through my belongings with a callous disregard for the little remnants of my dignity.
My chest tightened with each rough tug of their hands, and my possessions scattered about like discarded refuse. Every cherished memento, every token of a life once lived outside these suffocating walls, was treated with such disdain.
It wasn't just the physical violation that cut me to the core – it was the relentless assault on my sense of self, the reminder that even in this tiny corner of the world, I am nothing more than a nameless, faceless man stripped of all autonomy and agency.
I was left to pick up the fragments of my dignity and rebuild the walls around my heart once more. But no amount of fortification can shield me from the crushing weight of this existence.