Being Roderic I was seized and sentenced to die by hanging.
Being Susan I was imprisoned and sentenced to die by hanging.
The coincidences between the two past lives end here.
Staying some time in prison destroys your soul, and sometimes it can take you to the brink of madness. One of the main reasons I have to think that in each incarnation a new mental body is created (making use of esoteric terminology), is that it would be impossible for us to live with the same mind we had in other lives, especially when certain experiences make you arrive to your death in such a state of disequilibrium that functioning with it as we did in childhood it would be slightly less than a miracle. Yes, I know, maybe I should begin by defining what the mind is for me, but I will leave that for another day...
Nothing to blame, but the actions you choose
Driven insane by the conscience of treason
Running in vain from a life of abuse
For the first time I am going to share publicly some of my memories about my stay in prison. Why am I telling them? I don’t know. Maybe because they burn within me and I have to get rid of them somehow. Maybe because the anxiety accumulated during those distant days keeps affecting my neck and my head nowadays —though I ignore the mechanism that makes this possible— and writing is the only thing I have left to release all that tension. Maybe, it is only because I need it, purely and simply. If someone wants to judge, they are free to do it. As much as they try, they will never be able to imagine in the least what I am talking about. Even if they had their own past life memories, they could only get a bit closer, as each life is unique and unrepeatable, for the good things... and also for the bad.
To ease the reading and avoid repeating myself too much, I have organized the information I got from a good number of regressions, the first of which dates from January, 2014, and the last one from only just a few days back.
The description of the cell in which I was secluded doesn’t change much along my past life journal. Despite being always on my own —probably due to the scarcity of female prisoners—, it doesn’t look like an individual cell. I guess it is the cell reserved for women, and if there were more, we would all be placed here. It is a rectangular site, quite wide. If I peer through the door’s bars I see a dark hallway, and I think there are more cells, these for men, I suppose. In the back wall, at the right, and slightly high, there is a window quite wide too, with bars. Every morning rays of sun enter through it, at an oblique angle, but they hardly warm me up. Here it is always very cold. The bricks are dark, and the light that comes in from the outside is just enough to do the usual activities. In the center of the room there seems to be a wide column. Although I don’t see it very clearly, I have the impression you have to go around it to walk the entire room. Along every wall there are benches anchored with chains. I don’t think there is a proper bed. To sleep I curl up in a corner, on one of those benches, and cover myself with a thin and worn-out blanket that barely keeps me warm. On the right side there is a small table and a stool or small chair. I basically use the table to eat. They use to leave the meal in an opening in the door, but they never give me cutlery and I have to eat with my hands.
Part 2.