Life on Death Row

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“Billy Foster. Cell 11345.”

I looked up as the lady at the desk called out my name. The man in blue uniform behind me grabbed my arm and pulled me forward once more, starting off down yet another unbearably grey corridor… much like the one we had come from a minute ago. I twisted round to see the desk disappear out of sight as we rounded another corner, and another. Our footsteps echoed eerily on the prison floor, and I couldn’t help but notice the keys jangling at the guard’s hip.

   Suddenly we stopped at one of the countless grey doors that lined the corridor. I stared up blankly at the sign.

   “Billy Foster 11345.”

“Home sweet home…” laughed the guard grimly. “If you’re lucky, you won’t have to spend too long in here, mate.”

   He fumbled with the lock and opened the door, stepping aside to let me in. I set my teeth, took one last look down the corridor, and ducked inside my cell.

  The guard stepped forward into the doorway, blocking out the light from the passage way.

“Someone will come for you at six for an hour’s exercise every day, starting tomorrow. And you get one meal a day… other than that… enjoy what time you have.”

  And with loud clang that signified the start of my stay on death row, the guard slammed shut and locked the iron door. I sat down on the hard floor and listened to his heavy footsteps as he walked off- free to go home to his family and enjoy his life once this shift was over. Bitter stabs of jealousy knifed at my heart.

   Once my eyes had adjusted to the relative darkness in my cell compared to the brightly lit corridors outside, I inspected my new home. A tiny window, complete with iron bars, had been fitted up out of reach in the far wall. It let in a few shafts of the evening light, casting slightly eerie shadows across the bare floor.

  I blinked. My cell had a total of two objects in it: A hard wooden stool huddled inconspicuously in the far corner and a broken bed, looking as if it had seen far better days, stood on the opposite wall. I could see the springs peeping through the mattress; ugly worms rearing their heads. There wasn’t even a blanket.

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  I figured all this made for some pretty uncomfortable nights. I sat down on the bed, and the springs creaked threateningly. Bouncing absentmindedly, I started to realise just how desperate my situation was.  

   “Will you shut up in there? ‘Cos you’re doing my f***in head in.”

The voice made me jump.

   “Who’s there?” I called testily. I’d heard all sorts of things about the people in this place, and was pretty sure I didn’t really fit in with the whole child-murdering, hotel-burning population of my new home. For all I knew I had a serial killer ...

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