A prisoner reflects on his hopeless situation and the absurdity of life, pondering on philosophical ideas and questioning the concept of justice. He also notes the likelihood of his impending death. Not your average goofy ahh Wattpad story.
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My orderly's name was Noussair. Every time Noussair entered my cell, my stomach would churn, and my hands would shake. He wore a black beret and every morning opened my cell door to deliver a bowl of watery porridge and a piece of hard bread, cut from some ordinary loaf. I forced myself to look up and acknowledge his presence, but the sight of Noussair's smug grin made me want to retch. I averted my gaze and tried to focus on the wall behind the man. We would exchange one or two remarks about the weather. Then he'd slam the door shut, and I'd hear his boots shuffling away along the corridor. Sometimes, Noussair offers a welcome respite from the interminable monotony of prison life by bringing me reading material, allowing me to forget about the soul-sucking tedium and other unpleasant feelings that afflict those confined behind bars.; but today he had got a pair of sunglasses. I expected to hear the reason from him, but his facial expression made it clear not to ask anything. I tried several times to catch his eye. He handed me the glasses without saying a word. The first thing I saw when I put them on was my own bare foot. The soles were caked with mud. I looked at the remaining part of my right foot; it too was covered with a layer of dirt as thick as jam. Even my toes seemed brownish under their grime. Then I looked into the mirror in front of me. My hair was greasy and sticky with sweat, my clothes were torn and filthy, and my face, covered with blotches, was pale, mottled, and exhausted. Nussair waited until I turned round to see how much better they made me look, then he left, shutting the iron door behind him.
I laid the glasses on the corner of the cell, where I keep all the other items Noussair had brought me. I returned to my bed; quite a luxury in a place where the average person's most valuable item is his morning bowl. For me, it does not make a difference if I eat every morning or not. The food is tasteless, and the water is lukewarm. I occasionally eat because I have to, not because I am hungry. The only time I feel anything resembling pleasure is when Noussair brings me something to read, and even then, the feeling is fleeting. The rest of the time, I am numb, a shell of a person, going through the motions of existence. But today I had been spared the boredom, and for that I gave thanks. And so I said a silent prayer, although I wasn't sure who I was praying to. A ghost? God? Or perhaps just the idea of these invisible forces which were supposed to hold everything together? Who knows? What matters is that I did say a prayer, even if it was mostly just words without meaning. And that was enough for now. It was an inconsequential gesture, the smallest expression of hope in the midst of total despair. Maybe I was waiting for some miracle, though miracles don't happen here. This hope had no chance of ever being fulfilled. All it could do was exist, just like a flea infesting the skin of a sleeping dog, fluttering away after each painful twitch of its host.
As for today's strange event, I am still trying to understand what exactly happened. If I hadn't been given the sunglasses, I wouldn't have noticed my own feet. They probably didn't appear in my field of vision, obscured as they are by the heavy lens covering my eyes. Perhaps I'm not capable of seeing, because this too has become normal to me, part of my everyday routine. When you get used to wearing spectacles, you start noticing small details that escape your naked eye. After a while, there's nothing to draw attention to yourself, no more bruises, marks, or signs of struggle. At least that's what I am getting used to.
