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The Terror


The still air of my prison cell, thick with smoke, swallows my brooding thoughts, spitting them back at me stinking of loneliness.

I stare at tobacco stained fingers, wondering at how I can bemoan the years taken from me, and yet steal some more.

And somewhere still, in an endless night, I am a woman's nightmare. Never a day gone by without testimony of her fright.

The years tumble onward, over an over one another.

Over and over she floods her mind, hoping to wash away the stubborn terror that wears my face.

D.P. (A social prisoner convicted of rape.)

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