The clanging of the iron bell set into motion a wave of groans and whimpers as we were shook awake at 5 in the morning. Sometimes I wonder what the point of this routine is. It’s not like prison is a very happening place so how does it matter when we sleep, when we wake? Then again, when your dreams are devilish and you’re living in hell, what difference does either activity make? What difference does your existence even make? A loud snore interrupts my internal monologue.
Being in prison is anyways not a fun experience in itself but you know what makes it worse? Being in prison with HER. How can someone sleep like a pig through these obnoxiously loud alarms? “Maybe because her snores are louder hehe”, my brain shot back, clearly impressed with its humour. Ugh. How is it that in a place filled with 1600 people, I managed to find myself stuck with the worst inmate. The probability of that happening is like 0.06% but then again, the probability of me getting caught was lesser than that and I’m here now, ain’t I?
An ice-cold shower, an inedible slice of toast, and overly-mashed beans, I settled into my bed to do some well-deserved reading. My warden had thrown in a dilapidated copy of ‘1984’. Most of the words had faded out but I was glad for any entertainment at this point. Disturbance struck again though.
“We’ve been here for two months and I still don’t know what they brought you in for,” she said suggestively.
“It doesn’t really matter anymore. We all ended up in the same place anyway,” I whispered indignantly.
When I ignored her advances, she came on stronger, “Come on 531, what are you shy of? I’ve seen all of you now. Might as well tell me.”
I cringed internally at her name for me- 531. The first time we met, she reduced me to our prison number. Made it clear that that was going to be my identity from now on. Perhaps that’s the reason I developed such a block against her. Or perhaps it was the fact that she had no sense of personal hygiene, I thought as the delicious smell of her filthy socks greeted my nose. She would purposely drop them near my bed, pretending as if she never does it on purpose. Realising that she was still egging me and would not shut up till I gratified her with an answer, I sighed and said,
“Not that it’s any of your business but I sold pot to rake in some extra cash to help with my mother’s treatment. My friend outsourced what I gave her to a cop without realising and then you can join the dots.”
“Aww 571 messed up, but seriously, how did you even think you would survive in the underground market when you can’t even keep your friends in control. Bet your mama must be real proud now,” she said, cracking up.
It seemed like she just could not get through her day without taking a dig at me. She acted so smart and smug but somehow, kept forgetting that she was my inmate. We were in the same position. I came this close to sticking it to her but it was just never worth the headache so I let it slide, as usual.
As I went back to my book, she informed me, “ Oh by the way, I exhausted my call minutes so I used yours for today. I really had to talk to my friend and since yours are sellouts, it doesn’t seem like you lost out on much. Just letting you know so that you don’t go asking for yours today and get us both in trouble.”
Then she left. Just like that. As if she had not just meddled with my life and taken my one chance to connect with the outside world. How does she even get away with this? Why do I never say anything? How can anyone be this despotic, conceited, entitled, smug, irritating, and filthy at the same time? Does she not understand the difference between right and wrong? (I recognise the irony of making this argument from a prison cell but this was just basic human decency) She should be in an isolation ward. No one should have to experience this misfortune. Socks on the ground, showers once a week, absolutely no deodorant, jokes that are not funny, no respect for personal boundaries; she was taking the stereotypical inmate image way too seriously and then she would justify everything by smiling with those icky black-coffee stained teeth and saying, “Come on 531, stop sulking. I’m the only one you have here so you might as well make use of it.”
Again my internal monologue got suspended as the waft of black coffee hit my nostrils, my book was plucked out of my hand and she handed me a cup of that poison saying, “ Come on 531, stop sulking. Read something brighter and make use of the only friend you got here.”
Weirdly that day, I took the cup, kept my book aside, and- I still maintain the cause was the primal need for human interaction in this sea of desolation- looked at the only friend I had, shocked and moved by the acceptance that once this was all over, I would, for some godforsaken reason, end up missing her.