The hot morning sun is a prison guard, its searing rays a baton – goading me, poking at my hot and clammy skin from the free world outside, as I lay here sweating profusely on this thread bare prison mattress.
The sharp shafts of light are a spotlight on this rank and dirty floor, illuminating the reality of my situation, as the putrid smell of two day old food and stale urine assaults my senses.
My mouth tastes like blood and death. My left eye is a badly repaired bike tire, misshapen and swollen, my bloodshot pupil barely visible underneath.
I force my head up a fraction, squinting agonisingly through the harsh light, and scan the tiny room. I come to a stop on an ongoing roach party, a squirming blur of vile, fighting and squirming over God knows what, in one of the dank corners of this foul cesspit.
Over my makeshift bunk, a solitary spider plans his daring escape, concocting a convoluted scheme in a maze of silk webs and fine strings, mocking the helplessness of my situation, as he weaves and winds his way to freedom.