A bucket sits underneath the sink, a metal desk is soldered onto the floor, a bed is fixed to the wall - all human needs are accounted for. A dusty Bible is slightly visible under the bed. On the desk are some pencils, a tabloid newspaper, a transistor radio that does not work, some blank pieces of paper and a small crucifix. All the objects are smothered in dust. A young man, about twenty-seven years old, sits on a metal chair (which is attached to the floor), leaning on the desk with his elbows. His blue eyes are haunted by dejection. A primitive window permits some solitary rays of light, a radiance that harshly clashes with the sinister gloominess of the chamber. The dark, nauseating cell resounds with silence.
"I used to love Christmas Day. I wonder what my parents are doing right now I just hope they are happy and not too ashamed of me. They deserved better, but I"ll try not to think about that. Thoughts like that are dangerous; they send people mad. I've survived so far by being indifferent to everything nothing really seems real anymore anyway. I read in the paper yesterday that the world is on the brink of war. I tried to be sad, to think of all the innocent civilians who are going to die but I couldn't, because nothing is real anymore." .
Silence again floods the cell. He fumbles with his regulation prison belt and eventually removes it from his regulation prison trousers. His hands tremble, a look of dread scars his face and his voice cracks with emotion.
"I"m lucky in some ways; sometimes I really like it in here no one bothers you if you keep your head down, all you've got to worry about is passing the time, defeating the boredom, finding something to occupy your mind with. If I"m ever released, that's when life will begin again when I've got to wake up from this sleep. I don't think I can return to the outside." .
He clasps the belt tightly around his neck and a solitary tear seeps down his face.
