Dear Diary,
It has been a week since the rumor started that the itch is back, but it's only today that the guards, clad in hazmat suits, herded us like cattle into the open yard. It was fumigation day, and the prison was enveloped in a cloud of toxic fumes and the stench of insecticides.
Scabies. The little demons have found a way to inflict even more misery upon us, and the authorities seem to have decided that the only solution was a fumigation exercise weeks after some organization brought cartons of scabies lotion to the prison. They even called a section of us to receive the gifts.
But maybe the rats ate all the lotion and sandals they brought. There have been so many of them lately.
The fumigation team, faces hidden behind masks and goggles, moved like robots. The spraying machines hissed, unleashing a toxic rain upon us. They seemed to enjoy their work a little too much today. Our coughs and whizzes must have been very entertaining.
We were being subjected to this ordeal in the name of health, yet our spirits were being asphyxiated and our humanity corroded.
I wonder if our lives mean anything to the authorities.
This place smells like death after an exercise like that. It fires up my sinusitis. My nose is completely blocked now. My chest feels scratchy inside.