Roach

Dear Diary,

The sun rises again, a cruel reminder that time marches on even in this forsaken place. I've lost track of the days, but the monotony remains – a relentless tide that sweeps me along. The cell door creaks open, and I shuffle out with the others, my legs heavy, my spirit heavier.

Breakfast is the same gruel, tasteless and tepid. I eat mechanically, my mind drifting to memories of home. The smell of my mother's cooking, the laughter of my siblings, the warmth of the sun on my face. It feels like a lifetime ago, another universe. Here, the only warmth comes from the friction of bodies pressed together, seeking solace in shared misery.

The courtyard awaits, its cracked pavement a mosaic of despair. I find my spot by the fountain, the water still murky, the cracks widening. The sun blazes overhead, searing my skin. I close my eyes, imagining the ocean – its vastness, its freedom. But the illusion shatters as a fight erupts nearby. Two men claw at each other, their rage fueled by hunger, desperation, madness. The guards descend, batons swinging, and the screams echo off the walls.

I retreat to my corner, my back against the graffiti-covered wall. The words taunt me – promises of love, declarations of loyalty, pleas for mercy. They're faded now, like the hope I once had. I trace the letters with my fingertip, wondering if anyone will remember me. If anyone still cares.

The days blur together. The nights are worse. The darkness wraps around me, suffocating, whispering secrets I dare not hear. I've started talking to the cockroach – my only companion. I call him Solitude. He scurries along the cracks, a silent witness to my unraveling. Maybe he understands. Maybe he's waiting for me to break.

Today, I found a feather on the windowsill. A fragile thing, its edges frayed. I cradle it in my palm, marveling at its lightness. It's a sign, I decide. A message from the universe. I close my eyes and imagine wings – strong, unyielding. Maybe I can fly away from this place, leave behind the guilt, the shame, the pain.

But reality crashes down. The feather slips through my fingers, lost in the dust. I'm no angel. I'm a man who made choices – bad ones, irreversible ones. The faces of those I've hurt haunt me – the widow, the child, the friend who turned away. Their eyes accuse me, their voices echo in my dreams. I've become a graveyard of regrets.

The guards pass by, their eyes deadened by routine. They don't see me. They see a number, a problem, a paycheck. I wonder if they dream of freedom too. Or if they've become numb to the suffering, the cries, the broken souls. Maybe they're just like me – prisoners of circumstance, trapped in this cycle of cruelty.

I sit by the fountain, my fingers trailing in the water. It's cold, like my heart. I close my eyes and write letters in my head – to my mother, my siblings, the woman I loved and lost. I tell them I'm sorry, that I'll never see them again. Maybe they'll read my words someday, trace the invisible ink of my pain.

As the sun sets, I lie on the mattress, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Solitude scurries across my chest, a silent companion. I whisper to him, my voice raw. Maybe he'll carry my secrets beyond these walls. Maybe he'll find a way to set me free.