THE BETRAYAL THAT BACKFIRED

Dear Journal,

In the desolation of this solitary cell, where shadows waltz with the flickering candlelight, I find myself grappling with the weight of my isolation. Each passing moment seems to stretch into eternity as I navigate the labyrinth of my thoughts and emotions.

Today, like every other day, I awaken to the dim light filtering through the barred window, casting elongated shadows across the cold stone floor. The monotony of my existence suffocates me as I struggle to find meaning in this endless cycle of confinement.

Whether literal or metaphorical, betrayal cuts more profound than any physical wound, severing the bonds of trust and leaving behind shattered hopes and fractured relationships. Yet, even amidst the darkness, a flicker of defiance remains, refusing to be extinguished.

I find myself imprisoned, the stark reality of my situation gnawing at my spirit. It's a familiar narrative, devoid of heroism or grandeur, just the stark truth of my incarceration.

My imprisonment stems from a betrayal of trust, a moment of weakness that led me down a path of deceit. In a desperate bid to save myself from financial ruin, I betrayed a dear friend, embezzling funds from our shared business venture.

Once the truth came to light, there was no refuge from the consequences of my actions. The weight of guilt and shame bore down upon me, driving me to the brink of despair.

I ended up in jail! There was nothing special about it, nothing dramatic—no bold ideas about finding yourself or testing your limits. I just ended up in jail.

I have never been in such a situation before, and nothing is brave or noble about it except the knowledge that I am a prisoner.

But yes, I found myself in prison. I consoled that it would be a real experience for a book I could write later—everything sounds good when I can explain it to myself. And this is where the most significant problem arises. When I manage to convince myself, that's where the end of everything begins. It becomes a habit. Whether I like it or not, I get used to everything, even as a prisoner and sleeping in a cell.

Admittedly, I did not sleep.

I was lucky. The cell had no garbage or excrement. Although the cell was stifling and terrifyingly hot during the day, the nights were cold, mainly after midnight. Neither the jacket nor the blanket under it helped.

And so, the days passed, lying on the cold stone floor of the cell, listening to the voices of the people in my mind: there was no freedom, no company, no vision for the future.

The days seemed as long as years, but the nights were the worst. The darkness in the cell was like darkness in the grave. In such darkness, I heard every part of myself, realized all my fears, released my pain, and cried! I cried all the time. Even when I thought I could not cry anymore.

The first two nights were difficult. The first thing that crossed my mind was: "Look what you've fallen for! You have not learned anything again! You are sleeping in a prison cell!"

To avoid thinking about hunger, I wrote a book and poems. All the songs were sad, but that's not surprising considering my situation. And yes, I was disappointed in myself, and the worst started to happen. Every day, I lost more hope. Days of bad weather followed; it rained constantly, thunder ripped through the sky, and there were no prospects for good weather—just the emptiness of the cell and me.

Five long days pass without food. The last thing I ate was a hard pastry I found in a bag next to the trash can inside the cell. It looks like some Samaritan had left that for me.

That was rock bottom for me, and while I was swallowing that "meal" with the help of water, I cried like a baby. A big part of me died that day, and I will never be able to get it back.

Five days later, despair took over. I was waiting for a sign, anything to give me hope for better things, and then I could not go on. I gave myself an ultimatum. If nothing changes or happens by evening, I will take my own life.

Immediately after making that decision, I felt calm. Nothing else mattered, and somehow, I was even looking forward to ending all this torment and misery. A big part of me was secretly rooting for nothing to happen. And it did not occur. No one comes to visit me, Jesus did not appear, I did not hear God's voice, nothing. Only voice inside of me screamed like the alarm to tell me, "It's time."

I lay down on the floor and calmly brought the blade of the knife to my neck. All I had to do was stab the knife hard, and it would be over. I forgave the world and made peace with myself but could not. I made that knife from the broken metal ram that use to be part of something bigger, maybe bed or table. It had no sharpness on it, but I did not care.

For half an hour, my agony of forcing myself to grip that cursed knife lasted, but in vain. Looks like I wasn't ready to die - at least not by my hand.

Anger and disappointment completely overwhelmed me. I twisted the knife at the other end of the cell and cried like never before in my life. I felt so inconsolable and powerless as if I condemned myself to suffer.

Sharp and unyielding truth slices through the silence like a blade, laying bare the harsh realities of this forsaken place. Each day is a battle for survival as I confront the demons that haunt the recesses of my mind.

Despite the overwhelming darkness, there are moments of respite, fleeting glimpses of a life beyond these walls. In the quiet of the night, as I lie upon the unforgiving floor, I find solace in dreams of a future where freedom reigns and we reunite once more.

Outside my window, the winds of change howl, carrying whispers of liberation that tantalize my senses. But fear not, for within these confines, my spirit remains unbroken. Though the blanket beneath me wears thin and the floor erodes my resolve, they serve as a testament to the resilience that resides within me.

Pain has become my constant companion, weaving its tendrils through the fabric of my existence. Yet, I have repeatedly risen from despair, only to be cast back into the abyss. Still, I cling to the hope that one day, I will find the happiness that has eluded me for so long.

In the dead of night, when the darkness threatens to suffocate me, I call out to death, beckoning it to release me from this torment. But with each dawn that breaks, I find myself still here, enveloped in the familiar embrace of my blanket and the unyielding hardness of the floor.

Dear Journal, know that even in my darkest hour, your presence sustains me, giving me the strength to endure. Though my body stayed imprisoned, my spirit remains free, soaring above these walls in search of a brighter tomorrow.

Your Friend,