It should never have happened; if only he had controlled his rage. He should have walked away, but no. Starting that mindless attack resulted in five empty years, years which had promised so much, now wasted.
He longs to be free. To apologise, to tell the truth. To somehow right the wrong.
He yearns for the day when once again he can stroll in the sun, the sun which is now just a few shadow lines on a soiled cell floor. To wrap up warm on a crisp frosty morning and watch ducks skating on ice. To skim stones across a rolling sea. To play his favourite songs with the volume turned up so high the walls vibrate. To live.
Two years more, twenty-four godforsaken months.
One hundred and four pencil marks scratched on a prison wall, still to be crossed through.