Do Not Click Do Not Click Do Not Click
The Cell
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By Grace Thompson

It was a cold and harsh winter’s day. The trees were swaying vividly as the small creatures scurried to their burrows to share their food and warmth with their loved ones. The crystal lake that surrounded the abandoned and sad park was frozen like an icy-pole. That’s all I could see behind the greenish corrugated iron bars of the dark prison cell. The green paint on the bars was peeling away and rusting with sharp orange shards that could penetrate a prisoner’s old and weakened skin.

Inside the prison cell it smelt damp, musty and old, almost like the smell of a decomposing rat. I rested my hand on the small bedside table which was furry from all the dust that had settled there over the decades, its rotting wood gave a bald impression of what life would be like here. I could see the grimy walls were coated with a thick moss-like substance and mould. That I’m sure is where the putrid smell was coming from. There was also a bed, a chair and a toilet. The bed was obviously made for a child, small as it was. The chair looked like it could disintegrate at any moment from any pressure put on it. Over in the far corner stood a small toilet. Well, it resembled a toilet, I think? It was like a small pot that you would use in the bush when you go camping.

The feelings you get in the cell, you want them to stay in the cell. Sadness, revenge, desperation, anguish, nervousness and fearfulness of what’s going to happen to you next. Thankfully, I’m only the prison cell cleaner, Miranda. My parents were always in the cleaning business and I felt like I needed to give something back. Every day I watch the prisoners rowdy gambling and them discussing their plans to escape from the abyss that I call home. More often than not the hanger is occupied and the screeches and screams of the prisoners echo through the dark and misty corridors. The guards and chefs are my only friends here.

I was up to cleaning the cold, hard and wet tiled floor of the cell when I heard the sharp sound of the prison cell door being bolted shut behind me. I looked up, my heart was racing as fast as a prisoners would when about to be hung. The toilet flushed constantly by itself and the olden day light-bulb flickered wildly. I got up off the floor but a vast gust of wind pushed me back down. I fell entirely unconscious. When I woke I could see a face, a very harsh and gruesome pale face. It had scars and an eye missing. But not only could I see a face, I could see a knife…

To be continued……



Brian Falkner Books