The Infirmary
Dear Diary,
The infirmary—a haven within these unforgiving walls. Its entrance is guarded by a nurse, a woman with eyes like storm clouds. She's seen it all—broken bones, festering wounds, the slow decay of hope. Her hands move with precision, stitching flesh, administering medicine. But her gaze lingers—a silent question.
"What brings you here?" she asks, her voice a whisper. I hold out the forged pass—the small brass key that promises respite. She studies it, her fingers tracing the edges. "You're new," she says. "What ailment plagues you?"
"Nothing," I reply. "Just a cough."
She nods—a knowing look. The infirmary is more than medicine; it's a place of confessions. Samuel lies on the adjacent cot, his eyes half-closed. His cough—like Juma's—is a rhythm of suffering. The nurse examines him—the stethoscope cold against his chest. "Inmate 23711," she murmurs. "Your secret is safe with me."
The room smells of antiseptic and despair. The other beds are occupied—Makori, his face bruised; Kamau, his leg wrapped in stained bandages. They watch—their eyes like mirrors reflecting our shared desperation.
"Why risk it?" Samuel asks, his voice hoarse. "The infirmary won't heal our souls."
"Because sometimes," I reply, "healing begins with a choice."
The nurse leaves—a ghost in white. The room settles into silence—only the drip of IVs, the rustle of sheets. I close my eyes—imagining the courtyard beyond the barred window. The moonflowers bloom, their petals like whispers.
"What do you seek?" Samuel asks, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"Redemption," I say. "A chance to breathe without chains."
The door opens—the nurse returns. She hands me a vial—a bitter elixir. "Drink," she says. "It won't cure your cough, but it might ease your nights."
I swallow—the liquid burning my throat. Samuel watches, his eyes heavy with unspoken gratitude. We lie side by side—the moon our witness. The infirmary is more than medicine; it's a choice—a gamble.
"Rest," the nurse says, her touch gentle. "Tomorrow, you'll return to your cell.