Let the wind guide you

Intro

They say prison feeds you well, that it's a small price to pay for polluting the air with your stench. Whatever that means. I was never meant to be here. Walking into the basement of the complex, heavy cuffs dangling from my wrists I couldn't help but feel despair. And fear. Very real fear. Keeping it at bay was faith, not the religious kind, although I'm not sure what the difference is, but faith in the process. That it would only be a matter of time before Lady Justice would swoop down and save me from the clutches of the evil. The real criminal was out there, feeding off other innocent souls, I wish I had stopped him. Cleaned myself and my conscience. I suppose it's fitting this place is nicknamed the 'Wishing Well', because, well, all your wishes are a part of nothingness, to be uttered into the ether to only receive silence in return. 

"Stop", a robotic voice commanded. Can't believe he interrupted my cerebral monologue like that. Although I guess my imagination can only serve me for so long. Because facing the door to my cell where I'd endure for who knows how long, the knot in my stomach grew to the point of vomiting, which joined the various unsanitary stains littering the floor. It made sense now, the stench written on the walls. Nothing was more real than an overwhelming odour. Reminded me of the farm I used to visit as a child, 'good ol' nature haha!', grandfather would remark when I'd block my nose. This was similar, animalistic, but there was something else that lingered here, something more unique but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I hope I wouldn't have to put my finger on it.

"Your cell", the guard stated matter-of-factly, I'm not sure how else he could say it, he probably does this all day every day. Surely he could switch it up a bit? Intonate his voice. 

"Looks a little too fancy for me doesn't it?"

"Enjoy the view"

So he does have a sense of humour! Brilliant! I look forward to further deep conversations with this man in the future. All I could picture was him and I sipping cocktails by the beach, laughing as we told stories of our past while people ambled around us, the faint murmur of music in the distance and the quiet flurry of fellow beach-goers filling the surroundings. They sounded too quiet. I refocused my eyes on the plain steel door in front of me, and realised what too was haunting my mind. It was too quiet here. No voices. No one banging on the doors, all the small windows were tinted. It was impossible to tell how many prisoners were down here, if there even were any. There weren't even any guards. Must be pretty confident then. Confidence was dangerous. What if, on the odd chance, completely hypothetically I wasn't freed like I was supposed to and had to mount an escape? If I didn't see any guards who could I bribe? or overpower? Which prisoners could I leverage to use with me? The thoughts were swirling, blurring my vision. It was nauseating, reaching a crescendo which resulted in yet another, let's call it a 'projectile activity'.

"You should endeavour to refrain from that. More useful inside you. Much more useful"

The guard turned to me, signalling that my time had come, I could see a faint glimmer of pity in his dark eyes. Was that I tear I saw? My cell door opens and a pair of legs stretch out into the corridor and before I can mentally prepare myself for this reality, I'm practically thrown into it. I'm starting to think the pity was all in my imagination.