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The Cell
Steven, Age 13, England, UK

The walls were bleak and desolate; they had no emotion, nothing. Just four damp walls with no windows. The only break in this tradition is the cast iron door with no handle and no way to open it, at least from in here. The only light came from the single, flickering bulb that was stuck unceremoniously from the ceiling, almost an afterthought.

“Well, it's not much different from some houses here in the union” The prisoner had thought to keep his spirits up when he first arrived. Now he didn’t think, just concentrated on not going insane. He felt like he’d been here for months, years even. In reality it had only been two weeks. The guards bring him his meal, if you could call it that, at different times each day. It confused him, messed with his head. That’s if it wasn’t messed up enough.

He’d been taken from his home one afternoon with no explanation. The men had stood there with their plastic smiles and their frightening guns. Then came the chilling words-

“Department of State Security.” None of there questions were answered. He and his wife were put in separate vehicles going in separate directions, leaving there young baby crying in the hands of a neighbour, who watched the vehicles drive off then disappear. They were gone.

Yet it would soon be over, one way or another. The door scraped open and standing there was another guard. At least the guards here didn’t have the pathetic pasted on smiles that looked like a Picasso masterpiece. they didn't have guns either, only Tazers. A bag was forced over his head and he was forced out of the room that had been his world for a fortnight. Down a corridor and through a door. The bag was whipped of with no thought for the occupant and he could see his surroundings. He was obviously in an office of some sort with a desk in front of him and cabinets all around. Behind the desk was another smiling man, wearing a suite and staring at him, like a king that could let him live or die.

“Comrade” He began “your trial has taken place and I am sorry to say you lost. Yet the party benevolently grant people in your position one thing. You can write directly to Mr President to appeal directly.” He motioned to paper and a pen on the desk in front of him. “You have thirty minutes starting,” he checked his watch, “now”.

The prisoner's hands shook as he picked up the pen and began to write. He was scared and he had no idea why. He had no idea where he was, his family was or what would happen. He just began to write.

Half an hour later he was taken back down the corridor and through the iron door, into the room that tormented him, awake and asleep. He thought there was no escape. The guard quickly turned and pulled the door yet it didn’t close. Turning the prisoner saw fire and heard two loud noises. He could only see the roof of his cell now. Pain filled him and his chest had tightened. Then all was black.

Without knowing, he had escaped.

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