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(All of my jail stories can be found in the Number 979 folder in my gallery)

"Lights out" was at 9 pm. I put that in quotations because they keep one pair of flourescent lights on in each cell (each had six pairs of long tubes) during sleeping hours so the guards could keep an eye on us. Me, being the most junior cellmate, was the one who had to sleep under it, much to my silent dismay.
I'm used to sleeping in complete darkness, but Okaasan warned me that I'm not allowed to cover my face when I sleep. I didn't listen and put my towel over my eyes anyway. All through the night she kept removing it. I kept putting it back.

Okaasan and I were battling over my blanket as well. I refused to put it on, but she insisted that I would catch a cold if I didn't. I said I was warm enough but everytime I kicked it off, she put it back on me, saying that it'll get colder as the night progresses. At around 4 am, I woke up and noted that it was indeed a bit chiller. Luckily Okaasan won by putting the blanket back on me when I was finally sound asleep. I was grateful.
The next morning, a guard called me over and reprimanded me for covering my face when I was sleeping. Okaasan gave me an "I told you so" look.
The next morning I tried to ask Okaasan what she was in for, but she dodged the question. She said she'll tell me later. On the second night, when everyone else had fallen asleep, she opened up to me and told me how everyone in her life had already died. Her husband was dead. Her daughter, who studied biology and was such a smart and sweet girl, was also dead. All her friends had also grown old and died. She was the only one left, and she was lonely and friendless. And this loneliness seemed to be connected to the reason that she was in there.
And it was then that I really felt frustrated that we were being so closely watched, that I couldn't even write down my cellmates' contact details. I wanted to see Okaasan again when I got out. I wanted to visit her at home and have tea with her and be her friend. But I don't even know her name.

Description

(All of my jail stories can be found in the Number 979 folder in my gallery)

"Lights out" was at 9 pm. I put that in quotations because they keep one pair of flourescent lights on in each cell (each had six pairs of long tubes) during sleeping hours so the guards could keep an eye on us. Me, being the most junior cellmate, was the one who had to sleep under it, much to my silent dismay.
I'm used to sleeping in complete darkness, but Okaasan warned me that I'm not allowed to cover my face when I sleep. I didn't listen and put my towel over my eyes anyway. All through the night she kept removing it. I kept putting it back.

Okaasan and I were battling over my blanket as well. I refused to put it on, but she insisted that I would catch a cold if I didn't. I said I was warm enough but everytime I kicked it off, she put it back on me, saying that it'll get colder as the night progresses. At around 4 am, I woke up and noted that it was indeed a bit chiller. Luckily Okaasan won by putting the blanket back on me when I was finally sound asleep. I was grateful.
The next morning, a guard called me over and reprimanded me for covering my face when I was sleeping. Okaasan gave me an "I told you so" look.
The next morning I tried to ask Okaasan what she was in for, but she dodged the question. She said she'll tell me later. On the second night, when everyone else had fallen asleep, she opened up to me and told me how everyone in her life had already died. Her husband was dead. Her daughter, who studied biology and was such a smart and sweet girl, was also dead. All her friends had also grown old and died. She was the only one left, and she was lonely and friendless. And this loneliness seemed to be connected to the reason that she was in there.
And it was then that I really felt frustrated that we were being so closely watched, that I couldn't even write down my cellmates' contact details. I wanted to see Okaasan again when I got out. I wanted to visit her at home and have tea with her and be her friend. But I don't even know her name.