In the cell, there is a barred window with an ancient, heavy mesh-steel screen. It is level with the ground outside. The existing windowpanes are caked with decades of soil, and the screen prevents cleaning them.
A sheet of thick plywood, on iron legs bolted to the floor, is my bed. An old-fashioned toilet bowl is in the corner, beside a sink with cold running water. A dim light burns in a dull yellow glow behind the thick iron screening attached to the wall.
The walls are covered with names and dates--some of the dates go back twenty years. They were scratched into the wall. There are ragged hearts pierced with arrows and crosses everywhere. Everywhere are the words: "mom," "love," "god"--the walls sweat and are clammy and cold.
Jack Henry Abbott (1944-2002), In The Belly of the Beast, 1982
A sheet of thick plywood, on iron legs bolted to the floor, is my bed. An old-fashioned toilet bowl is in the corner, beside a sink with cold running water. A dim light burns in a dull yellow glow behind the thick iron screening attached to the wall.
The walls are covered with names and dates--some of the dates go back twenty years. They were scratched into the wall. There are ragged hearts pierced with arrows and crosses everywhere. Everywhere are the words: "mom," "love," "god"--the walls sweat and are clammy and cold.
Jack Henry Abbott (1944-2002), In The Belly of the Beast, 1982
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