Whispers

Dear Diary,

The darkness is my only friend. It wraps around me like a lover's embrace, shielding me from the harsh reality of this place. I lie on the thin mattress, my eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling. They're like fault lines, fractures in my sanity. 

The morning routine is a blur – the clanging of metal, the shuffle of feet, the tasteless porridge. I've become a ghost in this prison, a phantom drifting through the corridors. The guards barely glance at me. They're too busy counting heads, too busy enforcing the rules that keep us in check.

Outside, the courtyard is a battleground. The sun beats down, relentless. The cracked fountain mocks us, its water a distant memory. I find my spot, my back against the graffiti-covered wall. The others avoid me – the man with haunted eyes, the lad who weeps in his sleep, the boy who dreams of escape. We're all prisoners, but some of us are more broken than others.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the noise. The shouts, the curses. They blend together, a cacophony of despair. I've still talk to Solitude, my cockroach companion. He scurries along the cracks, a silent witness to my unraveling. Maybe he's the only one who understands.

Today, I found a feather again. It was wedged between the bars, a fragile offering from the universe. I cradled it in my palm, my heart racing. Maybe it's a sign.

As the sun sets, I hear whispers in the shadows. The others talk in hushed tones, sharing secrets, swapping stories. They call me "Silent One." They think I'm mute, but my silence lately is a choice. Words are dangerous here. They can be twisted, used against you. So, I listen, absorbing their pain, their hope, their desperation.

Tonight, I dream of wings. They're tattered, like the feather, but they're mine. I soar above the prison walls, the wind in my hair, the stars my companions. Maybe it's madness, maybe it's salvation. But for now, it's all I have.