Cellmates

Trigger Warning: Racism, violence, strong language

In the sweltering belly of Wormwood Scrubs, the air reeked of sweat and despair. I was just a kid, barely 15, shoved into a cell on my first day, heart pounding like a trapped bird. The door slammed shut, the screw’s keys jangled, and his boots echoed down the landing, leaving me to face my fate.

The cell was a furnace, the stench of the pisspot in the corner choking the air. On the bottom bunk sprawled a guy, maybe 20, his cropped hair framing a Millwall tattoo scrawled across his forehead. Swastikas and guns inked his arms, a roadmap of violence. His eyes burned with quiet menace, daring me to cross him.

I forced a smile, my voice shaky. “I’m Rakesh. What’s your name?” I extended a trembling hand.

He slapped it away, sneering. “Get the fuck out of my cell, Paki.”

My stomach lurched. “I just got here,” I stammered. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t share with Pakis. You’re gone by tonight, or I’ll knock you out.”

Fear coiled tight in my gut. My mum was Manchester-born, my dad from Afghanistan, but I was as London as they come. I didn’t know how to explain that to this guy, his hatred as raw as the ink on his skin. I climbed onto the top bunk, curling into a ball, praying for a way out.

Dinner came, and I bolted down the landing, begging for a cell swap. No one would touch it—his reputation was poison. Back in the cell, I choked down my food, his threats ringing in my ears. He kicked my bunk all afternoon, promising pain if I didn’t move. I was 15. He was a storm waiting to break.

At 5 p.m., they let us out again. I tried again—nothing. No one wanted him. Back in the cell, silence hung heavy. I drifted into uneasy sleep.

Midnight. I woke to his shadow looming, his finger jabbing my face. “Get up and fight, you wanker.”

“No,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t want to fight.”

He ripped my bedding off, flung it to the floor, and laughed. “Get up, shit house.” A slap stung my cheek. Then another. Rage exploded—he grabbed the pisspot and doused me with it. The reek burned my nose as piss and tears mixed on my face. He slammed the pot against my head, a dull thud ringing in my skull.

“Fight, you soft bastard!” he roared, headbutting me. Pain seared across my nose.

I curled tighter, sobbing, “I don’t want to fight!”

He lunged, promising to strangle me. No choice left. Adrenaline surged. I leapt off the bunk. “Fine, I’ll fight, but when it’s over, we shake hands and move on.”

He laughed, cruel and sharp. “Friends with a Paki? Fuck off.”

“I’m not a Paki,” I said, voice steadying.

He swung. My lip split, blood pooling in my mouth. I raised my hands, dodging his fists. He turned away, smirking, and I saw my shot. I tackled him, fists flying—punch after punch, fueled by fear and fury. I grabbed his hair, slammed his head against the pipes. The landing erupted, prisoners cheering through the walls, thinking he was winning until his screams betrayed him. “Get off! I give in!”

I stopped, gasping, shaking. “It’s over,” I said, offering my hand. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He took it, eyes wet, voice low. “Don’t tell my mates.”

I tidied my bunk, adrenaline fading. We started talking—Shepherd’s Bush, his hometown, small things. He wasn’t what I thought. Just a kid, like me, lost in his own storm.

Over five years, we became mates. Never spoke of that night again. He wasn’t a bully, just broken. And me? I just wanted to survive. Somehow, we both did.



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