Letter From Unknown Prisoner: Cellblock

     He did not think I would make it this far. He hears whispers of my triumphs by the other guards, and they inform me with malicious satisfaction of his displeasure.

     I did not know what to expect when I arrived here. It was not what I predicted. Much worse. The dungeons of Darigan Citadel reek of despair. The feeling is so strong, it overpowers even the hunger and thirst.

     Yelling from the other prisoners can be heard echoing at all hours. They cry because they know all hope is lost. That they will forever reside in this small, square, stone chamber, alone and with only their grief as company. I have grown accustomed to this fact, therefore, I do not weep anymore.

     I am not sure of my appearance, for mirrors do not exist in this place. I feel depleted, knowing that my once vibrant Kyrii features are hollowed, my mane of hair matted. The twinkle in my eye, as so many told me I had, most likely diminished and burned out.

     I cannot complain. It is my own fault I am here. The guards regard me with suspicion. They do not know why I am here and I can tell by their expressions of mistrust that Master Vex has kept that secret between us.

     They might be coming, so I must write quickly for they like to patrol the corridors regularly, mocking, and genuinely making sure all are kept in fear, which is their one true tool of control.

     They feed us three times a day, mostly grubs, rotten omelets, and moldy bread with a stick of butter. Once, I was given a crunchy bone sandwich. I did not ask where the bone came from, but I ate it nevertheless.

     My strength might have suffered but my will to live has never completely vanished.

     There was never any reason for me to save the butter wrappings. Perhaps I foresaw my need to write, but I was lucky enough to procure a small amount of lead, and so here I am, squatted in my chamber, utilizing what could possibly be the last bit of real sunshine I see, to tell my story, for who knows whether they come for me now, in twenty minutes, tomorrow, or as some are prone to shout, never.

     On a good day, the guards allow the prisoners to mingle. I suppose you could say I was friends with the others. As good of friends as one can be in this place. More so, companions are what we were. All bonded by the same fate, shackled with the weight of a destiny we could not change.

     I'll never forget my first day in this wretched place. I was new, so one of the other captives took the liberty to show me the ropes. He dragged out a wooden crate and propped a game on top of it. A game of which I had never heard of or seen before, but in which he, and all the other prisoners it seemed, were quite familiar with. They played it, he said, to pass the time.

     He said its name: Cellblock, and oh how fitting it sounded. I shall never forget that name. They taught me to play. Everyone must know how to play, they said. Clop, a Moehog who I had never heard utter a word, challenged me to a game. I was surprisingly good. I beat him easily, and the others were impressed.

     Barallus came to me the next night. We talked as we played. Its a common courtesy for one prisoner not to ask the other why he came here in the dungeons, so I kept my curiosity in check. He was probably my closest confident and, he was sharp for such a small Korbat.

     You win easily, and lose easily, he said to me smiling. I deduced he knew that I had let him win, for I was a natural at the game but was smart enough not to let the others know just how good I really was. I forfeited occasionally to make it seem we were on the same level, but we were not. I was so much better.

     Eventually I wound my way up the prisoner ladder. Squire Meekel was a sore loser; I did not care much for his company. Plus, he had a tendency to eat often and the way the guards stared at him was disconcerting to be around.

     The Yellow Knight, so assured of himself, was quite liberating to beat. He challenged me to use my skills of cunning. I acquired many new tactics and diversions, crafted my art of trickery.

     Then there was Prisoner Number Five, as they called him, for no one knew his real name. He played rarely, but I found it quite a treat to be in his presence.

     He ranted about a place called Jelly World, and scoffed at the others that laughed in his face. He even showed me scars from the time he’d gotten too close to the Snowager. They called him nothing but a crazy old Lupe whose chains must be fitted too tightly.

     I believed him, and told him so to gain his trust. He took to me easily and told me things from his time in the dungeons. He informed me, once he had seen for himself, my skill of the game, that I should be especially careful of attracting too much attention to myself.

     Others had been talented like me, he told me. Master Vex sought their competition, and they would mysteriously fail to make another appearance afterwards. Maybe they won, I muttered rather hopefully, and Master Vex granted them their freedom as the rumor said he promised.

     Number Five laughed at this. Laughed his wheezing coughing laugh so loud and so hard it ricocheted off the walls and I feared the guards would be irritated and come to silence him. Laughed so hard he clutched his side painfully and wiped tears from his eyes. I did not ask why he laughed. I already knew why.

     I believe I could have been painted invisible and still he would have stared at me. Master Vex, that is. He frequented the dungeons but kept to the shadows. So much so, I glimpsed him only four times since coming here.

     Three times, I caught him with the corner of my eye watching me play, eyes squinted, focused. I would glance away and the next time I dared to peek, he would be gone.

     The last time, about a week ago, I turned in my chamber to find him facing me behind the bars of my own cell. I was not afraid, nor was he, and we were both aware of this fact.

     I do not know how long we stood and stared, but eventually I turned back around, knowing he would be gone the next time I looked.

     Now the other prisoners gift me with solemn looks, the guards grinning at me with some unspoken secret they think I am not aware of. Oh, but I know. He comes for me. Tomorrow.

     I fear it shall be my last days in the prison, and I never thought I would prefer this dingy cell to whatever he has in store for me. Do I think I can win? Does it really matter? Maybe I should lose on purpose, but what good would that do me? None whatsoever.

     I feel anxious at the idea that my fate is already predetermined, and I have no power but to wait for its outcome, whether good or bad. Yet a glimmer of hope resides in me and I think I stand a decent chance to come out victorious.

     If for some reason, I do not, I leave these butter wrappings as proof of my existence. If you're reading this, know there once lived a Kyrii, who made a mistake and is now paying for his crimes. But he tried to be a good Neopian. He donated to the Money Tree and volunteered at the Kadoatery.

     Only now do I realize if you should be reading this, you might possibly suffer the same fate as myself. You will not know if I won or lost… if I am free or…. elsewhere.

     However, on another wrapping, I leave you my secret to winning the game of Cellblock.

     Good luck to us both.