| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Cell life.
Powerlessness.
I lost it eventually.
Maybe it was the airless cell, the windowless wall, the steel door and the refusal of deinstitutionalisation that contributed to the anarchy of madness or the silent scream tearing through the arid crevices of my throat when pleading for a drop of water. Whatever the reason for manic episodes, perceptions of imaginative figures and the black-eyed intruder living rent-free inside my head, I could not scale the walls for another second without the attack of stomach-churning biliousness and throat-clenching claustrophobia.
Darkness.
Boredom.
Loneliness.
Insanity.
My mind is not my own anymore. It belonged to a pitiless traitor, a persuasively articulate tormenter who liked to remind me of all I have lost to the untraceable hollows of unpoetical injustice.
A miscarriage of justice.
If I shouted into the dark abyss, pounded on the locked door or belted imprecations into the sprawling sphere of the night, the guards ignored me. I am unworthy of time and attention. I could stay here and rot in chains, in the tethers of psychotic derangement. That's what sheer carelessness and contributory negligence insinuated.
Solitary confinement.
What did I do to warrant the most extreme punishment?
Nothing.
I was escorted out of the main prison past twenty-foot concrete walls and doors that could only be opened by the central control room to be chucked into a black box the guards called disciplinary segregation.
To think I was blessed with a single cell on the lifers' spur before prison officers emerged in the middle of the night to rip me out of bed and relocate me to HSU, the high-security prison within the actual prison housing the most dangerous inmates who posed an escape risk. Or rather, high-risk criminals that could easily use connections to abscond judicial authority.
Yet, I have shown no signs of being a flight risk. I accepted my fate, kept my head down and took prison and punishment on the chin like a good soldier. I am not a danger to myself or the inmates...
Well, I am relatively harmless to other inmates, just as long as they do not step on my toes. Disrespect me and catch more than a slap on the head.
So, why am I stuck in the torrid vastness of Hell?
Your guess is as good as mine.
Sleeping on the cold floor is the lowest a prisoner can go: no bed, toilet, sink, regular access to clean water or communication with the other wings. I am left here for twenty-three hours a day to think about my actions, only lucky to grab a quick shower in and out, and that's if the guards are in a good mood. It's not uncommon for them to forget obligatory fitness regimes or personal hygiene routines for weeks.
