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Memoirs Of a Prisoner

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The cold was the first thing you noticed in the morning and at that point it was always a good idea to get up: if not you'd most likely get a beating instead of breakfast.

5:30 am was the time the officers usually came in to wake us up.

I remember this one guy, slept like the dead; we could hardly ever wake him up. Luckily he was always awake by the time they came in.

He never took anything lying down; got him into a lot of trouble that did. He used to be called away during dinner and never came back until late covered in cuts and bruises. When we first arrived we used to ask him what happened. We learned soon after that ignorance is bliss.

Over time everyone grew to respect him. To most of us he was our hero, the light in that everlasting darkness. He made us stronger. I suppose that's why the officers hated him; they wanted us to be weak in body and in mind.

But one day when we all woke up he wasn't there. His bed hadn't been slept in. Everyone seemed to have the same sinking feeling; we could tell something wasn't right.

That afternoon we were called into the yard.

The officer in charge smirked down at us with a smug glint in his eyes.

That feeling I had when we saw some officers dragging him towards us will stay with me forever. They placed him in front of us.

I can still remember the way he smiled at us, the tears that ran down his face. I remember the blindfold they placed around his head.

Blood splattered all over us and the wall behind him.

To this day the officer's voice still rings in my ears.

"Any Last Words?"

And his smirk before he said "Fuck you."


this story may not be that gruesome to begin with but it will get worse.

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