I've been locked up for 264 days.

I have nothing but a small notebook and a broken pen and the numbers in my head to keep me company.

1 window. 4 walls. 144 square feet of space. 26 letters in an alphabet

I haven't spoken in 264 days of isolation.

6,336 hours since I've touched another human being,

"You're getting a cellmate-roommate," they said to me.

"We hope you rot to death in this place-For good behavior," they said to me.

"Another psycho just like you-No more isolation," they said to me.

One of the things that I have learnt from my new roommate-in-isolation so far, is the fact that I have indeed been fortunate to have been placed in this dark cellar-like room for my isolation period. In prison cells not unlike this one, there is this prevalent system of ‘White torture’ where the inmates in isolation are kept in constant exposure to bright lights day in and day out. Now while this may sound quite adaptable for seasoned captives, it is not. Seeing bright lights all throughout the day, makes you forget how darkness was. The only darkness that persists is the one inside your head. As the lights outside grow brighter and brighter with every passing hour, the darkness inside tends to grow into an embolism of dark matter, and threatens to destroy anything that comes near it.

“What are you in for?”, he suddenly asked after having talked about his experiences in the Belmarsh high security cell for a full hour.

“I did something terrible”, I replied

“Interesting, do carry on.”

This was not going in the right direction. The nature of my crimes was such that had I shared it with any of the inmates here, I would have ended up getting myself killed straight away. Not even the warden was quite sure of what I was actually in for, all they had in their books, was murder and attempts at mass genocide–a very generic description.

“I can’t share anything about it.”

“Hey man, take it easy. Never mind. I was just tryin’ to keep up the small talk. I’ll go on then.”, he chuckled.

“Yes Please.”

“You know what, the person that pisses me off the most is my dad. He was this twisted creep, always high on exotic hallucinogens, single-handedly responsible for the deaths for my mother and sister, although he never got caught for the same. He tried to kill me as well but I escaped somehow. White torture has made me forget all the faces I ever new, I only remember that either my mom or my sister was named Alicia. Once I get outta here I will get to that scumbag and kill him for sure.”

His skinny face, tall frame and beaten-up ‘queer’ features suddenly seemed very familiar. The words struck hard and I was already rolling down my sleeves. For even in the dimly-lit prison cell, one could make out A-L-I-C-I-A tattooed on my forearms.