1. Chapter 1/#7 by hyperprotagonist

    That awful noise, every day, every morning at 7.15 precisely. Even though I’ve been awake for the past three hours waiting for the alarm to go off, even though I’ve been counting the minutes, watching the digital glow of the numbers on the clock, it still manages to give me a little shock. Perhaps its the sharp edge of the noise, or maybe I just can’t deal with the reality that today has actually arrived. Today is going to be a life changer.

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  2. Chapter 2/#9 by Ferg

    The alarm obliterates the silence. Metal grates as the gates open. I swing my legs off the bunk, the knot in my stomach bigger and tighter than Mike Tyson’s fist. Feeling faint I fill my lungs. My dangling legs are greeted with the usual morning pleasantries from my cellmate Leon.

    “Morning cunt.”

    Leon is not a nice man. Luckily I’ve only had to endure the last four months with him, and luckily for society he won’t be seeing the outside for the remainder of his active life. I’ve never asked him what he did to end up in here, but I know it’s dark. Ignoring him, I slide off the bunk.

    I look into the cracked mirror above the all too familiar stainless steel sink. The reflected shards a reminder that eighteen and a half years of captivity have not treated me well. At 3pm I get out of here. I should be happy, but I’m terrified. Can I cope with the brave new world I’ve seen on TV and in the papers? Will my daughter recognise me or even want to see me? What am I going to do for money?

    So many questions.

    My head starts to spin again. I take in another deep lungful of stale air and steady myself on the sink. The only way I’m going to get through the next few months is to focus. I need answers. I’ve got to find Mandrake. It’s the only way to get my life back.

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  3. Chapter 3/#10 by hyperprotagonist

    It was six years ago, maybe seven. Time blurs in this place. I don’t remember a great deal about what went down, how it happened, who was involved, but I know, just down deep within my soul, that I didn’t do it. Sure, this place is full of people who are innocent, every prison is, but I honestly hold that to be a truth – and that’s maybe the one thing which is going to keep me sane on the outside.

    It’s a funny thing, jail. It changes you. Not in the cliched way, I didn’t get tattoos or a punkass nickname, but I’m not the same person who walked in to this cell. Sure, I’ve been physically rearranged a few times, more scars than when I arrived, but everyone gets scarred over time – whether you’re inside or out. In here, though, emotion is physical. If you have a problem with someone, you deal with it outright, rather than bitching around behind their back like in an office.

    And that’s what worries me the most about going out – curbing my new instincts.

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  4. Chapter 4/#20 by smith_smithstone

    Only a crisp still December day greeted me when I left the prison. That’s exactly how I wanted it. Apart from seeing Mandrake I didn’t want anyone from my past turning up; they don’t know me anymore and I don’t know them.They are my past, my daughter and Mandrake will be my future, in time.

    Needless to say, Mandrake didn’t turn-up as I sat smoking watching birds making their morning way while listening to the sound of distant traffic grow louder with commuters.He hadn’t once visited me, guilt probably.

    I had to find him, so I headed into town. I had five hundred pounds in my pocket, just enough to get me into the places where I might find him. I took a cab because I didn’t want to sit on a crowded tube, exchanging stares with people eyes so distant from mine, their concerns so different from mine; my wits didn’t want to deal with that, I had to preserve them for what was ahead.

    The cab driver tried to start up a conversation about kids stabbing each other. Rather than tell him to keep it to himself because I really wasn’t interested and didn’t care, I simply ignored him – he didn’t seem to mind. As I traveled, it was comforting to see the streets I once roamed hadn’t really changed.

    The journey helped me assimilate my psyche with the London environment, yet still I got out the car apprehensive of what awaited me at 56 Newcomen Street.

    I rang the buzzer and he answered. That was easy I thought.

    “Hello, who’s that at this time,I’m just getting up. Come back later.”

    “No.” I replied. You could hear the recognition of who it was in the pause he gave.

    “Is that you?” He said.

    “It is, let me in, I want to see you.”

    He started to whimper. “You don’t understand, I’ve changed.”

    “That makes two of us.” I quickly said.“Let me come-up and see you.”

    “But, but.No I can’t.” He continued.

    “Let me in!” I screamed. “You owe me this, we have to talk about that night. I’m not going away, you’ll have to see me at some point. Let’s do this now.”

    I was there to get revenge on him for letting me take the wrap for something I didn’t do. Not physical revenge, but i wanted him to understand what he had done to me for leaving me, for letting me rot in jail without any contact. Despite this, I was looking forward to seeing him, after all he was, really, my best friend. He was my only friend and I hadn’t spoken to him in years.

    He pressed his buzzer to let me in. He never had a buzzer before, always had someone to answer the door for him.

    I walked up to his flat, remembering the noise of the wooden stairs, the familiar smell of the place. It brought back fond memories of how we partied, shagged beautiful girls and pretended to be gangsters. I smiled before I came to the door to his kitchen. I stopped smiling as my pulse raced with rage and excitement at seeing my friend.

    I opened the door and there he laid, in his bed, arms and legs missing and scarred burnt all over.

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