On the Wings of Hope: Prose (Recognized)

In the prison for a quarter of century

He opened his eyes. Both sight and hearing were coming back to normal, very-very slowly – but were returning. For many days he has still been recovering... A push of hand, a sharp pain in the broken knuckle – and he has risen. He is alive and he will sustain – despite everything.

Despite dregs in eyes and broken knuckle, acknowledging itself with a pain during each movement of the hand. Despite hateful shouts and most severe abuse, flowing around. Despite the threats from his "neighbors", which they intended to put in action if he doesn't share his part of that skilly that was brought to them so that they haven't starved to death. Despite the methodical and giving a ring on an iron floor footsteps of the approaching guard. Despite the sun which he hasn't seen for such a long time... only the weak light beam of which he had a chance to notice in the mornings – a light, hardly passing through strong iron plates, sealing windows in this stronghold of grief. In this stronghold of sorrow – and sometimes, only sometimes – repentance.

"Chumbrik, fuck you! We'll cut you on giblets! Do you hear me, bastard?! You'll lick our heels, bough!" A shout came somewhere from a distant chamber and sank in the silence.

Resisting ones weren't welcomed there, as well as loving ones, that's why similar people were almost absent in these cells. Except for local authorities and those who could prove with own blood that they are worthy of respect – for only the force did worth something here. A whole year was required for him to prove own strength in fights without rules, ones, "accidentally" overlooked by that supervisor that was slowly coming through a corridor, rattling with chamber keys... or, to be more precise, these battles were completely ignored by a prison guard. One week ago there was his last fight and after that, he was finally left alone. They have withdrawn from him like from an insuperable and indestructible stronghold.

"Dinner!" a loud peal of a voice filled a premise.

Now they will be fetched skilly bowls – gray-greenish liquid with a disgusting taste. However, a piece of bread was applied to this liquid, and that was already fine. This should suffice for approximately five-six hours. And then once again something similar will be brought to them so that they don't die from hunger. And so it goes on for a day, a month, a year... Nineteen years – nineteen long years he should remain here... nineteen-twentieth of his term.

Here comes the inspector. Now a food would be brought, he will sate himself with this pity piece of bread and a bowl of liquid stinking of slops – and feel easier. His organism will take many days to heal its wounds... It will take nineteen years for him until a day of freedom finally comes.

Here comes a meal. A bowl was pushed to him through a cutout crack in the bottom of a chamber's door. For some reason, the inspector continued standing, though it was already the time for him to go to new chambers. One second, two, three, five...

"Prisoner Skalov, your wife has come to visit you. We will guide you to a meeting room."

Simple human words, which have lifted his spirit on pleasure tops. It was such an immense joy for him now – to once again meet a close person in this house of loneliness, loneliness among hundreds and hundreds of people. His prison cell was slowly opened – the guard immediately pressed him against the wall and started quickly putting on handcuffs. He didn't resist.

"Do your job, guys. It's your work. Play your part," thoughts have flown in his head, remaining unexpressed. And what for? Prisoners aren't talked to – they are given orders and are compelled to their execution. Almost like in the army, yet worse. For disobedience – a bitting to semi-death or to the death – that's unimportant. A phrase in the official report will state – "has committed suicide" – in a chamber without even a single sharp object. It was possible to commit suicide there only having broken one's head against the wall...