Other than that, I go to the mandated therapy sessions. I endure Kelly and her cohort as best I can. And these last few days, I write. We might not get battered by the guards, or starved half to death （though I would argue that the canteen offerings make deliberate starvation seem like a valid option）， but I’m not sure that Oscar Wilde suffered more than he would have now, with Kelly as a cellmate, forced to do pottery workshops, talk about trauma with a group of crying women wearing rubber sandals, and sit in our cells for hours every day while those around us scream and moan because government cuts mean that there aren’t enough guards to supervise us.
Mainly, despite the popularity of TV shows about prison in recent years which seem to suggest that every minute is action packed, my stay has been dull. There are lesbian trysts, of course, there are occasional blow-up fights, but mostly it’s hours of lying down alone, counting the time in ten-minute increments, crawling towards another week, or month, or in some cases, years. I imagine you could stop counting at some point. But I cannot. To stop marking time would be to allow the possibility that I would be staying here for more of it.
Despite all of this, nobody will compare my work to De Profundis. I am not a man for a start, and I’m certainly not delusional enough to think I’m an intellectual. I write no foolish love letters from my cell. I learn no big truths from being stuck in here. But neither will I emerge half broken. I will go on living, thriving, and this period of my life will not mark me.
More than all of this, I believe I hold one further advantage over Wilde. For all that Wilde’s writing about prison is held up as the most profound example of the genre, he spends much of it wallowing in despair about a man who has wronged him. Lord Douglas was said to be spoilt, entitled, careless with the feelings of others. He left Wilde’s love letters in clothing he gave to male prostitutes. He rejected their relationship and condemned Wilde after his death. Douglas sounds just like my father. Charming, arrogant, centre of the universe. Men who turn their lights full beam on you for a few seconds and leave you chasing that artificial warmth for the rest of your life. It wrecks you and doesn’t leave a mark on them. But I learnt that early. Wilde never did. Perhaps then, he could have learnt something from me. Never yearn for the light that some men will shine on you for the briefest of moments. Snuff it out instead.
*
Today I ate breakfast, cleaned the kitchens and then went to meet up with Kelly and her friend Nico. I didn’t want to, but Kelly had promised to buy me cigarettes from the weekly canteen service and smoking is the best thing you can do in here. In the outside world, it’s almost entirely frowned upon now but here, fags are an effective way to make friends, curry favours, and cut through the boredom of prison. So I sat with them as we drank our tepid tea. Nico offered up something she promised was cake. Everything on offer is stodge, stodge, stodge with a side of jam. Everything is brown. It’s strange feeling my brain disengage with big picture stuff and obsessively focus on thoughts of meals I’d like to eat, clothes I’d like to wear. I want a bowl of pasta from La Bandita and I want to wear breathable fabric which ripples down my body rather than makes me worry about being anywhere near a naked flame. I think about baths at least ten times a day and I feel panic rising – my fingers scratching my collarbones – even as I try not to let this stuff overwhelm me. That’s leaning into it and I can’t let myself do that – I can’t get out of here and blink as I emerge into the light. I can’t spend time readjusting. I want to hit the ground running, not trying to get my brain back up to speed.
Nico is easier to listen to than Kelly, with a voice that doesn’t veer towards the nasal. She’s in here for something interesting too – she killed her mother’s abusive partner with a hammer last year. I’ve never asked her directly about it, I know better than to raise someone’s crime before they do, but she mentions it often. She talks with pride about how her mum is getting counselling and how she’s studying to be a counsellor too now. Nico calls her twice a week, and often cries quietly as she listens to her. I like Nico. I wouldn’t go near her on the outside, damaged and wild-eyed as she is, but I respect what she did for her mother. It wasn’t as well executed as my revenge plan, but the impulse must have called for speed over design. Unfortunately the lack of thought that went into her actions meant she was still standing next to him when the police turned up ten minutes later. Nico didn’t have a hope in hell of a credible alibi, and will be in here for another twelve years. Her mother is 60. By the time Nico gets out the woman will be 72. She’s given up her youth for a pensioner. It’s love. But it’s also patent stupidity.