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Life Means Life

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Life Means Life The sly shoves and kicks from policemen didn't bother me. It was the look on their faces. They turned up their noses as if the smell of me was too foul to endure. Their eyes seemed to darken at the sight of me. The first time it really hit me that I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison was only when they took away my personal belongings. Everything that gave me a sense of identity, of individuality was carefully listed and placed into that blue plastic box - a Mars bar which I have loved since I was a little lad; my keys that never worked first time you twisted them in the lock; my worn and familiar clothes that I refused to throw out just because they were old, and my wallet with the picture of - my girlfriend who says she no longer loves me. These small insignificant things that made me an individual were stripped away literally and all that was left was me. Me. It made me break down right there in the room while they were removing the laces from my shoes. ...read more.


"Get a move on boy." I was brought to my senses with a violent dig in the ribs. I lumbered into the room. A bald man looked up from his paper and his face turned from surprise and alarm to disgust and revulsion. He turned to the man sitting next to him who then stood up and knocked his cup to the floor. I watched it roll across the floor until it came to stop but I couldn't look up. When I did, his stare hit me like a fist. I found it hard to breathe. Other men were noticing that something was going on and more and more of them were eyeing me with hatred. Silence. The tension was building inside me with dark feelings of self pity and anticipation. I felt like a cornered animal waiting for the first strike but it wouldn't come. I just wanted something to break the silence. Anything. I was shaking head to foot and I peered round at the men that were brewing with deep hatred. These men were murderers and rapists with evil tendencies but I was scum even to them. ...read more.


I can't talk to anyone or tell them how I feel. My own mother says she would like to see me hanged. I have lost everything. I have nothing. No future, only the past. Life carried on. People came and went but the attitude of every one of them was the same. The endless cycle where days and weeks seemed to be one long struggle to keep my sanity. Every day I went to the library and kept my head down. Every day I ate the same food alone at the same corner of the room, every night I tried not to listen to what the inmates were shouting and every night I would cry myself to sleep. At the same time every day, the bell would ring and I would return to the same four walls. I would walk down the same corridor and get the same look from the junior officer. I would walk into the room and turn around to hear the familiar sounds. The same sound of the door slamming shut; the same sound of the key in the lock; the same sound of the inspection hatch sliding closed with the same black lettering spelling the name that brought out such deep feelings of hate of everyone in this jail, everyone in this land, the name Ian Huntley. Pity gone. Thomas Baddeley 08/05/2007 10RS ...read more.

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