"Beep, Beep, Beep"
A short, repeating, high-pitched sound woke me. Slowly, vision returned. I could see an IV drip attached to my left hand. The heart rate monitor sat on my right. Its beeping sound pulled me from slumber. Curtains encircled the area, shutting me in.
Too tired to move, I breathed slowly. I was alive. Tears fell. I chuckled—it was the first time I'd laughed in months. Even at rock bottom, I felt rare bliss.
In those last moments, I felt that anything was better than the never-ending emptiness of the embrace of death.
'I will live, I will do anything to live.'
Those moments and realisations during my stay in the infirmary changed me, changed me on a fundamental level of my being.
After a month had passed in the infirmary, I was finally taken back to my cell.
I chose to resist and fight back. Even if I had to take on the whole prison, I'd do it with a smile.
I trained daily. Inmates got two hours outside—mine were spent running, weightlifting, push-ups, pull-ups, and squats. No one bothered me.
Everyone knew who put me in the infirmary, but no action was taken. The deputy issued a stern warning—not out of concern, but because my case was fresh in people's minds. My death would cause trouble for him.
My prison job as a carpenter paid well. In jail, brokers deliver items for a commission. Due to my infamy, I paid high fees. Still, I ordered nutritional supplements, resistance bands, and anything to get stronger.
After three months, assaults started again. This time, I fought back, though I only got bruises and couldn't hurt my attackers. Defiance grew within me.
This defiance shaped me. I craved freedom—to do as I wished, free from control. To be free, one needs power.
A full year after my training and resistance began, my efforts finally paid off. Still, I was beaten most of the time. Those responsible weren't let scott free, to say the least. This made others wary; they kept their distance. Over time, fear and caution grew. Not everyone felt this way.
Tango, seeing my status rise in prison, couldn't abide it. He'd been quiet while dealing with rival factions. But now, at the top after those above him were released, he resolved to eliminate an annoyance.
He couldn't stand the thought that someone like me was making a name for himself in prison. He decided to attack me with a few of his men.
One evening, when I was returning from the workshop, Tango and four of his men surrounded me from all sides. They were not like others; they are top brass in prison, at least in brawling. I looked around and saw that the area was empty—no guards or inmates. I knew this was a setup.
"There is no way out for you, punk. You shouldn't have resisted; maybe you could have survived your imprisonment then."
I look at their grinning faces, eager to jump into action. Over time, I developed the ability to detect concealed weapons.
"Don't worry, I will survive; I can't say the same for all of you."
All of them laughed and then jumped into action. One went past me, to hold me from behind, at the same time, Tango's fist swung towards my jaw. I ducked and swiped my legs behind to throw the person at the back off-balance, and then took a step aside and stood slightly left of Tango's outstretched hand and landed a straight, resounding slap right across his right cheek.
The other three lunged. A tall brute charged; I pivoted, redirecting him into a wall. While he reeled, I snatched a hidden blade from his uniform. I sprinted for the remaining two. I stabbed their legs, immobilising them. This unfolded while Tango was still stunned by humiliation.
"You runt, you have grown balls to slap me in the face." His voice echoed within the halls.
He ran towards me. While he was charging, I kept an eye on his only standing ally, who was still able to fight. I dodged the wild punches from Tango, who has lost all reason. Suddenly, a pair of hands tried to grasp me from behind. I ducked to avoid both of them. I turned around and stabbed the assailant behind in his right leg, and he lost his balance and fell down. Then I rolled over to evade the punches aimed at me from above.
I looked at Tango, who was huffing, his hair wet from sweat, eyes filled with rage.
"Is this all? Can't smack a runt, and you call yourself a gang leader? What a joke."
Tango lost whatever bearing he still had. I knew I could not take him head-on, even with a sharp blade in my hand, so I tried to evade his charge. But apparently, I didn't have to. In his rage, he lost his senses, and he tripped over his fallen ally and fell face down. His nose was bleeding profusely, and he couldn't get up.
By morning, news of what had happened to Tango and his men had already spread across the prison. That day, I could see fear and respect in the inmates' eyes. This brought the long-standing fight to a halt.
I realised it wasn't about me being a traitor that made me a target; it was weakness and lack of status. To them, I was just an easy outlet for frustration.
After which, life in jail was quite repetitive: wake up, eat meals, make chairs, tables and cabinets. I continued to train my body, but my progress had been slowed since there was no one to test my skills on.
I endured my three years of imprisonment and was finally out of prison. On the last day, I wondered, wouldn't it be better for me to stay? A part of me was accustomed to prison life. This is the place that made me who I am now. But thinking about it was a waste of time; I didn't have a say in entering prison, nor do I have a say in leaving prison.
Leaving prison, my first thought was shelter—I had no home. My prison-earned savings covered only a few months. Branded a traitor, my resume yielded no work. I laboured in restaurants, in delivery, and in fields during harvest. Life kept repeating for a year and a half. I had forsaken engineering; my will to create vanished. Life has become monotonous in nature.
But that didn't mean I was pessimistic in any way; life in my prison taught me that as long as I am alive, it's not the end of the rope. I was still struggling, looking for light at the end of the tunnel.
Just as I adjusted to this life, my health declined. Years of eroding mental health and gruelling, low-pay jobs depleted my strength. The illness was treatable. Still, my funds were insufficient for care. I dropped a few jobs due to being unfit, further reducing income.
The sound of retching echoed in my cramped washroom, bringing me out to the present—it felt like I spat out my insides. Gasping, I wondered, Why suffer this agony? When will I die?. At this moment, my defiance died; I no longer feel the need to struggle. Slumped in my chair, I replayed regrets—abandoning my passion for building. I could have worked in a humble workshop or left the country to begin anew. In my last moments, I mourned surrendering my drive.
A strange sensation enveloped my body. For just a moment, a question drifted through my mind: What if I get a second chance in life? Is there such a thing as a second chance? I shook the thought away, attributing it to fever and fatigue. Still, the question lingered—unanswered, refusing to be fully buried.
"Huff, huff, coff, coff. I am too tired, let's go to bed and sleep". After lying in bed, he considered, "Tomorrow I will go to Maji restaurant and see if they have some work, I still have to pay bills even if I am dying". He slept without any dreams, with his mind finally free from all troubles, and never woke up again. He passed away in his sleep.