𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love makes you do things you never intended to do, but it's distinct when you hold hands and promise to behold each oth...
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It was her.
She was sitting in front of me. I looked at the wall of my cell, then back at my hand. Yes, it was her after all.
Those same mesmerizing eyes, that same voice that I want to hear like a song on repeat, and that face that I have to think twice before looking at, fearing my gaze might destroy the beauty of a goddess.
Ella.
Maybe it was a stupid dream that would never come true. But she was right there. I wish I were dreaming. It's hard to believe, yet here I am, trying my best. I look down at my hands, which are now set free from handcuffs, as I take off the gloves from both my hands and slowly bring my left hand to my chest.
This heart of mine is doing this uncomfortable beating. Those beats occur whenever I think of her. It's a bit uncomfortable; I don't know how to stop it.
I look back at my cell wall and the date I marked on the cell with a stone. It's been 4 years. 4 years, Ella, yet you don't know me.
It's a blessing. Indeed, a blessing. Why would a prisoner like me want you to remember me? She never saw me, did she?I am a prisoner inside a cell. Of course, she was right when she called me a criminal.
That hurts, but still, a smile appears on my face. Every time, every single time I think of her, a smile appears on my face. A smile that isn't forced; rather, it's a smile I can't describe with words.
"Get out." The voice was harsh as I turned to face the guard, standing as usual with his stick and handcuffs. I got up and placed both my hands behind my back to let him cuff me.
The rusted iron cell cracked open, and the guard proceeded to put the handcuffs on as he said, "Try to pull a stunt, and it's over. Got it, fucker?" It's laughable because I can easily get my cuffs off if I take off my right prosthetic hand. The handcuffs will fall off.
"Got it."
He then put the black cloth piece on my face. What's the purpose of covering my face? Do they think that just because I can't see where I am going, it will make any difference? I count my steps, and I know each step and the way in the entire prison.
Nonetheless, I am not planning to run away. Running away from here is pretty much useless in my case when the mighty minister of my country has set a special eye on me.
After a while, my steps were stopped when the guards squeezed my right arm. "Don't move," he said, then proceeded to open my handcuffs. I think I am in the back kitchen of the prison. The guard then pulled off the cloth from my face, and I was indeed correct. I am standing inside the back kitchen, and there are tons of used dirty dishes from prisoners kept in the basin.
