I’m sitting alone in this dark, cold cell. The only light in the room comes from a small, barred window. The striped shadow falls lengthwise on the floor toward the door. There is a draft, even though the door is tightly shut.
And so, I sit – in my death cell. I admitted my guilt, but I’m terribly afraid of the consequences. How long do I still have to live? Will I be allowed to see my family once more?
I stand up again, because the cold floor I’ve been sitting on has chilled me to the bone. I pace back and forth in the cell. Three steps in each direction before I have to turn once again at the wall.
I become aware of a dull knocking sound. “Come in,” I call out, as if I had any say here about that. But the knocking is not coming from the door, but from outside, through the small window.