I’ve come to know every crack around me and I’ve even learned the patience of watching paint peel. I know every squeak of my bed and each motion I make while lying down elicits a sound I already recognize. I guess it’s these little things that keep me sane. These few things and the small stack of magazines I have, which I often reread.
I know almost every single page but I read them and still feign shock at what the articles reveal. Some might say that’s an early sign of a loss of sense but I hold on to everything that helps me escape the tediousness of my routine. I have a few friends now but it’s just not quite the same. We barely talk much, I find it draining to be sharing dreams and hopes at a time like this.
On the wall next to my bed I’ve put up a picture of my daughter. In just a week she’ll be turning one. So young and so precious. She’s my all, my everything, the light that keeps me holding on to hope. Her mother though now that’s a different story. I have no idea how together we created such a beautiful angel because me and her together is nothing but an inferno. And not the good kind of fire but something that destroys and ruins everything in it’s path.
We only tolerate each other’s presence for the sake of Nothando, as she was beautifully named by her mother. I didn’t get to have a say in the matter. In fact I have little to no rights as far as she’s concerned. To some extent I understand the feelings of resentment. When Layla first came and told me she was pregnant I pushed for her to get an abortion. Well at first I called her things worse than a prostitute and denied the child was mine.
I’m not proud of my actions but a lot happened in the moment. Emotions were high and… and I need to stop making excuses. There’s nothing that can justify the way I treated her. So anyways we’re here and there’s no going back. I haven’t seen my daughter in the last three months and the last time I saw her, Layla had some choice words for me. She told me I was toxic and well I’m not going to go into my exact words but I was colourful with my language.
This morning when that bell rang I had been awake for a couple of hours. I couldn’t even get close to anything that resembled sleep. There was that pit of hopelessness swallowing me whole and I had such craving for a beer or something a little stronger.
Breakfast was about as appealing as digging through a rubbish bin. I had to stifle a gag with every mouthful that I swallowed. This all did little to brighten my early morning mood and I felt everything was going down from here. By lunchtime I almost got into a fight and luckily one of my so called friends was there to save me from myself.
I am a police officer but I am in prison, well maybe I should say I was a police officer because once you’re convicted of a crime you lose your job.
If you’re intrigued you can find the next chapter here.