Destiny's Gamble

Confinement

Manik's POV

"Romeo's asleep again." The nasal voice of the guard comes down like a hammer on my peaceful slumber. I keep my eyes shut, not ready to give up on her voice just yet. The guard's baton clanks against the steel bars of the cell, making me flinch. No, don't go! I instruct my dream, forcing it to stay. Her tinkling laughter surrounds me, a one of a kind, contagious grin flashing at me. I feel myself reach out towards the source of the sound, as if to box it in, leaving no chance for escape. A gasp escapes my trembling lips, my agonised nerves causing me to sit up. I'm doused in ice cold water, the liquid seeping into the very corners of my underwear.

"It's time to stop fantasising about Juliet and face reality, where none of us get fucked." The guard says, tossing the empty pail across the narrow space that I now call my living quarters. It clatters around the cemented enclosure, making me wince. Living in such a place causes even the softest of sounds to seem loud, and this was downright chaotic.

"Clean that up and then report for breakfast duty." The man instructs as he exits, the door creaking loosely in his wake. I glance around at the mess he's made. The liquid has seeped into the many cracks and crevices on the ground that weren't present when I first came here. But it's my fault - the damage - because many a time I experience a dream I don't wish to wake up from. In fact, sleep may now be the only time when I can find a sliver of peace because she's in it; the only time when I get to witness her almost as if she were real.

 Maybe I believe that one day these dreams will turn into reality once again. I get off the bed - although calling it that is simply misleading - my feet landing on the wet floor. She was wrong. At times there's no sunlight at all. If there had been any, then surely this ground would feel warm. The rays would've lit up the walls and brought in some semblance of reality to the paint adorning them. I grab the handle of the wiper and begin the job I've done a hundred times before by now.

*****

"Lover boy, French toast again?" Jakra shakes his head in disappointment. "Did your Heer teach you nothing else?" Ignoring him - an art I've mastered over these six months - I spoon two toasts onto another convict's plate. Some of us, like him, have accepted our fate and are willing to live with defeat. Maybe that's why we've told no one our real names and live with the three black numbers spread across our pockets to act as our recognition.

"Uh uh," Zeeshan sneers, picking up a toast from the steel container in front of me. He slaps it against the side of my face, as I stand there, unflinching. "You can keep my share." Zeeshan watches me, awaiting my retaliation. He's been trying this for months now, when will he tire? I allow the toast to slide off my face and land on the floor next to my feet. 

"Whatever," he murmurs, walking off towards his posse, tired of seeking some form of emotion from me. That word - emotion - is a far off thought nowadays. 

"This place is full of pussies." A guy yells, looking at me pointedly. Lips sealed, I continue with my task. Little do they know that if I came to fighting them, then even if they called an entire cavalry, they wouldn't stand a chance. Alas, I don't wish to. After all, what will it be for? A fight should have a cause of gain and I've nothing to gain when six months back I lost the greatest battle of my life.

*****

"Show confidence," Eva coaches me. "You're not guilty, remember that." I nod my head, my eyes searching the partially empty hallways for her. 

"Can I have your phone?" I ask my friend impatiently. "Mine is still in custody." 

"Nandini will be here, Manik." Eva says, handing me her phone. "I could smack her in the face with evidence against you and she will still deem you innocent." Pulling up Angel's number, I call her up. The persistent ringing drones into my ear. Pick up. Pick up, I mentally chant. The call ends, my heart skipping a beat. Could she have messed up the time of today's hearing? Overslept, perhaps? But Angel isn't me, which means she's punctual as hell and yet she's not here.