
Whatever you think hell is, you’re wrong. You think fire and brimstone, but hell is actually white paint, stainless steel, and a cold that settles into your marrow and never leaves.
I became the nucleus of a concrete cube. It didn’t matter if I was 15 or 40, innocent or guilty; once the door slammed, I was just meat in a box. The room was 60 square feet of psychological warfare. Sometimes the walls were stark white, illuminated by a white light that hummed 24 hours a day, erasing the memory of night. Other times, it was a dungeon of filth—shit stains on the floor, nut stains on the mattress, and a smell that hit you like a physical blow: a cocktail of old urine, vomit, and fear.
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