I've come accustomed to the way things are. The cell where I've sat for as long as I can remember, has been unlocked and open for quite some time. Yet here I sit, hands gripping at the bars, wishing I had never seen this place. The bracelets of steel hug my wrists together, they are my oldest friends, I wouldn't lose these shackles for anything. They restrict me, but I have no need for my hands any longer, for I have no purpose nor shall they. These hands are despicable, I had a purpose in this world once, a family, but these hands couldn't stop the dreadful fate that overtook them. And these hands couldn't stop me from being brought here. If I can make no good of these hands, then I can only produce bad and I'm terrified of that. So here I sit, saving mostly myself from the outside troubles I'm no longer required to deal with. My body and my spirit aspire against me, still having ambition and life and the will to continue living with passion. But my mind and my heart are disabled, seek no farther than my only home, the one that is barred and cold and grey. Here at least I am safe, safe from being broken yet again, learning to love only to have love stolen away. The ones who murdered my dear wife and children, murdered my conviction and my freedom. I was sentenced to a life long period in prison, for the assumption of me being the one to kill all I've had to live for. I wish now that my life wasn't so long, and that I had been killed along with my family. I've been long forgotten, the door open awry. But here I sit, not because I have no feelings and I've shut them out, but because I feel too much.
