Convicted

Part 1

I stare at the calendar that hangs from a rusty nail above the metal frames of my bed. I've been in here a year now. Time seems to have no meaning here. I seem to have no meaning here.

I grip my hair in frustration. It feels lank and weak in my shaking hands. My fingernails are red and cracked from the endless days of scratching the concrete wall. I want this to end.

My breakfast of a tasteless, watery porridge sits untouched in the corner. The food here is revolting. To think that this time last year it was the last day of my murder trial, and I had no idea my freedom was to be taken from me.