Enclosed. The towering grey walls loom above you. You feel trapped. Cold. The warmth from your tiny candle is lost in the empty space surrounding it. You must be frugal with your candle. It has to last two weeks, use it all before then and you are left living in constant darkness. The ceiling; nothing but a grey slab of concrete. No lighting. Nothing. The floor; worn wooden boards, splintering and cold. You don't have the luxury of having a window to let sunlight filter through. It would be colder if you did; there would be no glass in it. You have the bare minimum.ΜύLocked up and not allowed out. The door includes a hole for people to glare through at you, no privacy. Straw is scattered on the floor for you to sleep on, it's spiky and extremely uncomfortable. No blanket to snuggle up to for comfort and warmth. No mattress, no soft pillow to rest your head on. It's cold. Very cold. A harsh Irish winter. It is 1847; the middle of the Great Irish famine, food is scarce. Boiling outrage is present, as your country trades away the corn and rice and other crops the farmers have slaved away for. It's backbreaking work, you know it was your career. Only the potato crop remains to be eaten eat. There is little to share. Many starve. Millions are dying. You are in the west wing. It comprises of three floors and you are currently living on the bottom floor. Long, narrow corridors surround you; they intensify the feeling of being trapped. The rusted pipes running along the cold, damp walls are supposed to give a bit of heating, but either they don't work, or they give such a scarce amount of heat it has no effect on the air surrounding them. It's so cold. You feel like nothing. You want to go home. The west wing is the darker, older part of the building. More depressing and menacing. The echoing footsteps of the guards drum into your head. You do not know who you are anymore. You're depressed and lonely. You're going mad. From your allocated area you can hear the screams and pleas coming from some of the more unfortunate occupants, those that face being executed. You know exactly what they are going through. You have witnessed many executions, the majority of which were hangings. The poor, defeated soul standing helplessly, awaiting his or her fate. Their fear clearly showing as they tremble uncontrollably. The rope, stained with blood is fastened loosely around their neck. The whites of their eyes showing, many reduced to tears. Grown men crying and begging, whimpering their last wishes; telling their family they will always love them, gasping for their last breath. And suddenly the rope tightens, and their face turns a red-purple colour. Their eyes will roll and their nostrils flare, like a petrified animal. You watch as their limbs stop moving, and all that is left is a lifeless body hanging on a grey, stone, wall. You wish to bury the painful images that keep reoccurring inside your head. You can sit and wail for hours and nobody takes any notice or even cares. You never get any visitors; you are forgotten, nobody remembers you now. The place can offer no happy thoughts; you are locked up in your own mind. Scared to even think, you are lonely, depressed. All you can do is watch; you have no impact on the world anymore. Nobody can see you. Nobody can hear you. Nobody can touch you. You don't exist to them. Only a few have second sight, and they just think they are going mad. You are left to glide along the deserted passageways. Forced to share the only bit of privacy you get with others. You believe that it is your right to haunt that area.ΜύIt has been your home for the last 150 years. You cannot walk out like others; you are trapped forever within the towering, grey, walls of Kilmainham Gaol. |
