Clutching a pile of folded fabrics and smelling like a
new born, I walked into the cell, and the metal bars slammed shut behind me,
like in the films. My new roommate looked up at me and smiled. I wasn’t sure
how to take it; it appeared sincere and warm, but in the climate, I remained
unsure. Still, I smiled back and nodded my head. She opened her mouth to
speak, but no words came out, then she returned to her writing. She was using a tiny pencil and what I came to know was the standard issue lined letter writing
paper, A5 wide, wafer thin. She had three piles of the stuff under her bed, and a sharpener. No
envelopes, no binding; certainly no paperclips or staples, thank God. How much damage might a small pencil do? I asked myself. I wasn't sure if she heard, so I cleared my throat. She shook
her head. I heard my voice asking her if she was writing a book and why she didn’t use
the library computers. I didn't get a reply so I lay down and
turned to face the wall. I made my peace with death and
drifted off.
