It was dark. Dark and thunderously loud.
He longed for a noise machine. Or some earplugs. Or even a space of his own. But none of that was happening. Not for another 3,649 days.
Doing time in a country club prison wasn’t supposed to be easy, but this was inhumane.
His bunk shook. He’d taken the top as a good will gesture. And this is how he’s repaid? With a night of earsplitting, cell rattling snoring?
He called down to his cellmate but pleas for quiet fell on asleep ears.
Inmate #24543 sighed.
He was never going to make it.
The Weekday One Hundred 