A tray of food sits untouched on the floor, her stomach knotted and gnarled, unable to eat.
Her throat dry, accepting no relief from the water she drinks, her hands shaking in an in controllable spastic tremor.
Her eyes reddened from hours, days of weeping, her self pity pathetic.
You could feel sorry for her without knowing her story.
The clock outside competing with the noise of her beating heart.
Her chest echoes, empty.
The same heart that loudly pounded with an schizophrenic abandon in her frenzied times.
Her absorption incapable of empathy, nor compassion.
For so long she satisfied herself and justified her actions with the ease and pride of catching a fly.
She was one of those not content to let it die quickly, rather, a fascination with cruelty for her own pleasure, pulling at its wings until they ripped from the insect, leaving it at her mercy.
She doesn’t notice the swarm in the cell, attracted by the putrid lavatory and the air of death that not only followed her, but now hung over her.
The cell was small, clinical, serving the bare minimum of purpose.
The well worn bed on which she sat, had been the final conscious resting place of those whom had done worse, some less, but all as shocking as each other.
It’s all about degrees but the outcome never changed.
She scuffed her toe back and forth, keeping time with something, maybe a thought, maybe a song that played over and over, a distraction.
The smooth concrete floor had rubbed the skin to the point of bleeding.
She seems oblivious to the pain, just as she was to the pain she inflicted upon others.
A stainless steal mirror hung above a hand basin with one single tap.
The mirror carried the calling cards of etched signatures and in the centre, where you would normally look at your reflection, the words “fuck you” were
scratched angrily by a previous occupant.
Her pants were drenched in urine, she lost control and ability to even be concerned about hygiene days before.
She sat in her stench as if it were normal.
Normal to her was a clear confusion of the ugliest urges, her mind awash with thoughts that would sicken the hardest soul.
She cried tears of remorse, not for her victims, remorse that it was all over, that her complacency overtook her care and concealment.
She lived an arrogance that would become her undoing.
Outside the cell, she heard the yells and mutterings of faceless neighbours. It grated her like the sound of nails down a black board, a shiver seemed to occupy her spine.
It caused her to scream abuse, hoping to make it stop but it only served to humour the other prisoners, their laughter haunting and teasing her.
They were all in the same predicament, the eminency of her destiny sooner than theirs, they too would be in her position.