As the throbbing pain on Whitney’s left side subsided his focus came back to him. He was sitting on a small bed. He focused on a window, his last view in to the outside world. The paint that had once coated the bars that stopped him from jumping though the window, had long since began to peel and now patches of dark paint with curled edges where the only black in the view of the bright and alive outside. Suddenly a bird landed on the sill watching him like an extra guard and taunting him when it took flight, as if it knew that he wished to follow.<br/><br/>The mocking painted metal door showed where previous prisoners had clawed in a bid for a desperate escape from their fate. The door handle was dirty from the many futile attempts to turn it and the keyhole wide and round, an entrance to another world that was teasing him.<br/><br/>Then there was the smell, like someone had been beaten to within an inch of their lives during which they had pissed themselves and even vomited as the life was pounded out of them. This was not a place for Whitney. He was a actor not a criminal.<br/><br/>He sighed, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes trying to remember a better time than this.