In Bang Kwang prison, the air is as thick as fear, and the bars are like invisible chains.
Here, strange lives are stacked, as if plucked from a bad dream.
Imagine this place as a hell on earth, with overcrowded cells, dark corridors, and never-ending screams. The reality here is so cruel that it seeps into your bones.
The flickering lights never cease to remind you that you are locked in, just like the constant sound of heavy doors slamming shut.
A subtle reminder of an impossible escape.
The minds of the inmates, including mine, begin to break slowly, leaving behind a twisted version of sanity.
Here, the normal details of life become strange signs of impending madness.
People talking to themselves, gazes lost in the distance, repetitive rituals that seem to make sense only in our heads.
It’s in this environment of despair and confinement that minds start to fracture and reality distorts.
Bang Kwang prison is a trap of anxiety and despair with no way out.
In this earthly hell on the outskirts of Bangkok, cells overflow with cramped bodies, and the cries of the helpless intertwine with unbearable stench.
Within this place lies the setting of a narrative as unsettling as it is disturbing.
Within these shadowy walls, I found an unexpected corner of camaraderie.
A friend.
The eyes of the other inmate and mine shared the weight of our sentences. One day, I approached and broke the silence with uneasy words. We discovered that both of us had blood on our hands, driven by choices that had led us to this hell.
As our friendship solidified, we entrusted each other with dark secrets we had buried. He shared the brutality that had landed him behind these bars, and I shared the story that haunted me like a shadow. In his company, I found momentary solace amid the brutality of the prison.
But over time, the pieces didn’t fit. Details of our stories clashed, and occasionally, there was a glimmer of confusion in his eyes. Finally, the day came when I saw the truth clearly. My mind had woven a twisted illusion, and I realized that my friend was my own victim.
It was all an illusion.
The other inmate was the man I had murdered. The reason why I was in this pit of filth and hatred.
The impact was devastating, but not in the way I expected. I felt no remorse or pity; only a cold shiver of satisfaction. The truth was that I had done what I had done, and in my twisted mind, the fabricated friendship meant nothing.
If anything, it was a mechanism my brain had created to keep alive the best moment of my life.
The smell of blood.
The struggle.
His lifeless eyes.
The prison is a portrait of my own cruelty. And the false friendship I built within these walls only underscores my contempt for human life, even my own.
In this place of despair, all that’s left is the empty echo of what used to be me.
In this place teeming with death, all my wounds are covered with the blood of another man.
The one I call a friend.
The one whose life I took to give myself the best moment of mine.