CHAPTER NINETEEN
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My eyes widening in shock at the state of the place. Toys and clothes are scattered everywhere, and the air is thick with the smell of dirty diapers and stale air. The lady apologizes hastily, grabbing her handbag and making a quick exit.
I'm left standing alone in the midst of the chaos, wondering where to even begin. The child, still crying, tugs on my arm, and I force myself to focus.
"Okay, little one,"
I say, trying to sound calm.
"Let's get you settled first, and then we'll tackle this mess together."
I take a deep breath and start by changing the child's diaper, trying to block out the overwhelming sense of disorganization that surrounds me. As I work, I make a mental list of all the things that need attention: laundry, dishes, vacuuming...
But as I look around, I realize that it's not just the physical space that needs attention. The child's cries are starting to subside, and I sense a deeper need for comfort and care.
I sit down on the couch, holding the child close, and begin to sing a soft lullaby. As I sing, I feel a sense of calm wash over me, and the child's eyes start to droop.
the child drifts off to sleep, I gently lay him down on the couch and take a deep breath. I look around the room, trying to prioritize the tasks that need to be done. The laundry basket is overflowing, and the dishes are piled high in the sink. I decide to start with the laundry, hoping to get a load in the washing machine before the child wakes up.
As I sort through the clothes, I notice that many of them are stained and worn. I must ask the lady if she has any laundry detergent and if she would be willing to replace some of the child's clothes.
Just as I am about to put the laundry in the washing machine, I hear a faint cry from the couch. I rush over to find the child stirring and looking up at me with big, round eyes.
"Hello there, little one ...how are you feeling?"
The child looks up at me and starts to cry again, this time more insistently. I try to comfort them, but he continue to wail.
Maybe he is hungry l head to the kitchen to prepare a bottle.
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I sit in the darkness of my cell, lm filled anger and frustration. I can't believe I've been denied a trial. I'm supposed to have rights, aren't I? But no, they've just locked me up and thrown away the key.
As I look around, I realize I'm not alone. The cells are filled with rough-looking men, their faces hardened by who-knows-what kind of experiences. They look like gang leaders, or maybe even worse.
I try to keep my head down, hoping to avoid drawing attention to myself. But it's hard to ignore the stares and whispers. I can feel their eyes on me, sizing me up.
One of them, a burly man with a thick beard, approaches me.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" he sneers. "Looks like a pretty boy, don't it?"
I try to stand my ground, but my heart is racing. I don't know what these men are capable of.
Me : Leave me alone.
The man laughs.
"Oh, we're just getting started. You're going to be our new plaything."
I feel a chill run down my spine. I know I have to be careful if I want to survive this place.
The man takes a step closer to me, his eyes gleaming with intensity still looking for a reason to cause trouble, sneers at me.
"Hey, pretty boy, think you're tough? Let's see how you handle a real fight."
He cracks his knuckles and takes a step closer to me. I can see the excitement in his eyes, and I know I need to be careful.
"Hey, Big Boy , leave him alone."
some inmate says but he doesn't listen. He swings a meaty fist at me, and I duck just in time. The fist hits the wall with a loud thud, and he grunts in pain.
He charges at me, his face ugly with rage. He delivers a swift punch to my jaw.
l crush to the ground, out cold. And before l realize is lm receiving kicks to the stomach . Is this how lm going to live now ?
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