The world as we know it has been seized and held captive by a relentless assailant, known as COVID-19. Originating in China, this merciless intruder quickly extends its reach, gripping the entire planet within its deadly embrace. With no corner of the globe immune to its impact, the virus sets about its maleficence unhindered. Before long, nations once buzzing with life are drawn to a screeching halt, their vibrant societies imprisoned within their own homes. 

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"No one is safe from the indiscriminate clutches of COVID-19. It is a battle of life and death, waged across countries and continents that no one could escape from."

 

As the death toll rises, the virus cruelly preys on the most vulnerable, the elderly and the weak unable to muster the defenses needed to ward off this invisible predator. In its wake, it leaves not just widespread devastation and immeasurable grief but an economical turmoil that sends countries spiraling into unprecedented debt. 

 

Yet amid despair, a glimmer of hope emerges. In record time, scientists and researchers rally their forces, putting forth an antidote to this viral menace. Vaccines are produced at breakneck speed, humanity's lifeline against the deadly onslaught. But, as the mass immunization program unfolds, it is the wealthy nations that reap its benefits the most. It's a race against time and a testament to human resilience and innovation.

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My inaugural visit to Sunflower Court on a section left me disturbed and demoralized. The sole cause, a racially instigated attack on my key worker, whom I felt had failed me. I learned with bitter clarity that the system is beautifully adept at finding rationalizations for its conduct - a game of convenience. They assert that the medication had ceased to efficaciously impact my condition. But, isn't it intriguing how they mold their narrative to their present advantage? 

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Days spent in the hospital felt like an abyss, where time lost its worth and the person, their dignity. Witnessing the treatment meted out to my fellow inhabitants was nothing short of shocking. A case in point is the man perpetually on heavy medication - a sorry sight of a human reduced to a somnambulant, drooling entity. One time, he even wet his pants, standing obliviously in the TV lounge, looking as stupefied as someone waking up from a bad dream. 

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They continually justified the excess medication as an aid to manage his severe symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. Yet it seemed to me, a desperate and punitive shot at behavioral control than actual symptom management. Evidently, the treatment was not tailored to fit the individual's specific requirements, a glaring lapse on their part. 

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Interestingly, everyone I've met who has been placed under section, mirrors my sentiment. They too have wished for therapeutic guidance at the onset of their ordeal. Strangely enough, that is the one lifeline mental health services seem least enthusiastic to hand out. My stint at Sunflower Court was mercifully brief, but it unconditionally bolstered all my underlying suspicions concerning the mental health services.

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After my release, I was immediately thrust into the chaos of COVID-19. Supermarkets were scarce of essentials, a scenario I was not forewarned about by the hospital. The only warnings came from my family, which I initially took lightly until I saw firsthand the nation's engulfing panic. It wasn't just a British issue, it was a global one, exposing the selfishness of our society. To my own surprise, there were moments when I longed to return to the hospital's relative calm and predictability.

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Like many, COVID 19 brought me to the brink of a financial abyss that deepened with each passing day. Prior, I had barely been managing my finances; but the sudden impact of the pandemic made the situation downright unmanageable. Most of my resources had been poured into the house, a decision I now question as my financial stability wavers. The moment I acknowledged that I was past the point of no return, I exhausted whatever little credit I had left in despair, a regrettably impulsive decision driven by the harsh realities of my situation.

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Contracting COVID-19, I was initially blindsided by a surprising symptom- neither taste nor smell seemed within my grasp. At the time, medical professionals like those in the NHS hadn't even publicly recognized this as a symptom. I naively presumed the virus was rather mild, but I quickly realized my mistake. An enduring, though mild, fever plagued me early on. Yet, it was the aftermath of my second bout with fever that truly terrified me - an indescribable chest pain that made living a torturous feat. Even lying on my stomach bordered on the intolerable. Fear seized me, making me question my survival and the grim prospect of dying alone in my home. Eventually, I pulled through the dark tunnel and found relief in Codeine's anodyne effect. Reflecting on my ordeal, I concluded that a weakened heart - likely an artifact of years of anti-psychotic medication known for precipitating heart disease - might have intensified my suffering. Yet, amid it all, gratitude washed over me. I realized I had survived when others, youthful and healthier, tragically hadn't.

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The experience of self-isolation took a toll on my mental well-being, leading to emotional turmoil and instability. A prevalent symptom was an obsession with reflecting on the past, which bizarrely led me to a conclusion - the only reason I was encountering these speckled visions when facing the sun was that I had already ceased to exist; that I died back on the 13th of August 2001 in Tenerife. The evidence seemed irrefutable - cryptic hints from the universe were clearly signaling that intensely bad event awaiting me on the 13th August 2002. The terrifying truth that dawned on me was that this ominous event had already transpired the year before. 

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Trapped in my own perspective, I stubbornly clung to this belief. Quite eerily, I started piecing together the fragments of my apparent demise. Contrary to any hopeful imaginations, the end seemed painful and tortuous, not one to be remembered fondly. But the puzzle I consistently grappled with was the motive - Why would anyone wish for my untimely death?

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Post catching COVID 19, I found myself unable to even take my dog for a walk and felt the pain gnawing at me. The unfortunate circumstance led to me entrusting Zarah to Deborah, a decision I've since second-guessed. I unfairly vented my frustration at Deborah, seeing her as opportunistically seizing upon my vulnerable state. This stemmed from personal reluctance to confront my own failures and instead misdirect the blame onto others. It appeared to become a pattern, where I'd lash out at those who I felt had wronged me. Medication offered little respite from this. Rather than acknowledging the failure of medication in comprehending and treating learned behavior, I found the healthcare system keen on turning me into a lifeless automaton, under the pretext of non-responsiveness to treatment. The challenge — it isn't an intractable form of Schizophrenia I'm confronted with, rather a behavioral issue. I say this with an understanding that healthcare professionals would twist my words to fit their narrative, deliberately provoking me and villainizing me to substantiate their professional intervention.

 

On July 6th, 2020, I mustered the courage to disclose the truth of my tormented childhood to mental health services, but found no substantial support. In fact, the only thing that saw a significant increase was my Personal Independence Payment. On October 31st, 2020, I walked up to the police and reported the abuse I experienced during my formative years. Did it trigger action? Sadly, no. Instead, I was met with even more dismissal when I needed empathy and assistance. The law enforcement officers showed no inclination towards probing into the injustices inflicted on me. Their best response? A detached "yes, it's very suspicious". The way they behaved, their seeming lack of interest in kick-starting an investigation, left me feeling even more violated. Instead of seeking justice, their main aim seemed to be shutting the case down as quickly as possible.

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Unfortunately, I haven't received any meaningful help in this nation, nor have I secured any justice. Despite this, it is expected of me to uphold the laws of the land, a respect gleaned from reciprocity that I find challenging to give. In this nation, it seems plausible for an entire family to exploit a helpless child, use their innocence to shield their malevolent deeds, and the police will not even question the culprits. They deny me any admission or insight into their misdeeds, rather appearing almost indifferent to my concerns. 

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Perhaps, given my own infractions, I am not deemed worthy of justice. But the fact remains that my unlawful behavior is a reflection of a deep-seeded feeling of oppression by authority figures. Be it an employer, mental health service, council, police, or who knows who else. The target of my rebellion always seems to be those in positions of power that exploit me thus abusing the power.

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Indeed, it is deeply ingrained in my memory, the occurrence of a death, marked distinctly on the 13th August 2001. I found myself trailing a man characterized by his missing finger, a narrative set in a different era. The subsequent events remain open to speculation, and I have formed a hypothesis, the origins of which, I must admit, are unclear. Traditional mental health services would likely write this off as a delusion; their practitioners, Doctors, oftentimes adopt an atheistic worldview, leaving little room for faith. However, for me, faith plays a pivotal role and guides my understanding of this world. 

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Believing in my faith, I was transported to a room devoid of windows in what seemed like a different realm. During my captivity, I was subjected to relentless torture, experienced by the likes of Alan Hopkins, Dean Wells, Chewy, and another unidentified man. The torment was unbearable, invoking within me a desperate plea for it to end. In my intense desperation, I falsely confessed affiliation with the police, hoping this claim would bring an end to my agony. The dramatic climax of this ordeal occurred with what I believe was a fatal incident, possibly a gunshot wound to the back of my head. The source of these memories eludes me, and their baffling nature confounds any attempts at logical comprehension.

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In my new existence, there was a cost I needed to shoulder - giving up the halo and all its associated privileges. At that moment, I was oblivious to this fact, just like Glover and Baxter were. In this second chapter of existence, I carry the emblem of mortality, only visible when basking in the mighty sunlight. Should there be another halo bearer, they too would spot this mark of mortality, seeing me as less than human, akin to death itself. I remain puzzled by the spots on my face, an attribute I didn't notice on either Glover or Baxter, but my observation was brief at best. The price of my golden opportunity was to endure life as a mere mortal until I meet my second demise.

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If my speculations hold true, the manifestation of the first demise might be validated through the birth of twins possessing an aura of sorts. It's my belief that they would perceive my symbolic visage of mortality as I bask in sunlight, always seeing their halos, yet they would be unaware of each other's radiant circles. This would serve as indisputable evidence for the skeptics, causing a seismic shift in global perceptions. Consider this, how challenging would it be to raise children while burdened with the diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia? From my experiences and those of my friends sharing the same diagnosis, society often recoils from the prospect. Mainly out of fear that their children may inherit the condition. Persons with paranoid schizophrenia are, unfortunately, treated as pariahs, a facet of humanity that is fundamentally repugnant to me.

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I was victorious in my tribunal case against B & Q, but they managed to pin it on a clerical error. This shouldn't be allowed when it's evident they deliberately withheld my departure wages and encroached on my holiday entitlements. Yet, it was me who ended up in jail due to accusations of harassment while trying to recover my due compensation. They behaved reprehensibly, but it seems the law still shields them despite their exploitation of it. It's disheartening that a business can mistreat individuals to such an extent, and it's seen as a civil issue with law enforcement standing by them. The police, as shown, lean more toward the interest of businesses rather than acting as a service for the people.

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Throughout the COVID 19 crisis, my role at Domino's required diligent effort to keep the operations running smoothly. Admittedly, the decision to keep doors open during such times can be viewed as contentious. Notably, many other food service businesses heeded the government's guidance, putting their operations on hold during the lock-down period. Ideally, being furloughed would have been a safer choice, yet the scenario unfolded differently due to what I perceive as my employer's lackadaisical attitude towards the pandemic. Tragically, I contracted COVID-19, likely from a fellow worker who also fell ill with the virus.

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In the aftermath of the pandemic's initial lockdown, my employer inexplicably altered their approach towards me. The first ploy utilized was the introduction of a young 17-year-old named Riya Mohan in an attempt to ensnare me in an alleged sexual harassment situation. There were instances when she seemingly made inappropriate physical contact, effectively turning her personal space into a contentious battleground. I, however, had no interest in engaging with her in such a manner and made it a point to rebuff her advances. The scenario then took an unexpected turn.

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My direct supervisor, Jack, began to insinuate that my actions towards Riya could be misconstrued as harassment. It was a common occurrence for me to ask her for a beverage during our shifts, a protocol obliged by the management as we were required to purchase our own drinks, albeit at a reduced price. Further, whenever I had some time to spare, I would assist Riya by fetching items from the chiller as a helpful gesture. It's important to underline that although Riya was an attractive young woman, her naiveté was evident. As such, the thought of pursuing anything beyond a cordial coworker relationship was never a consideration on my part.

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In the end, it was during one specific evening that the assistant manager, Jack, launched a startling assault on my beliefs. Jack posed a question, asking if I saw myself as God. I inferred that he was questioning my religious standing and endeavored to answer appropriately. However, before I could fully respond, he interrupted me and clarified that his initial question was, indeed, whether I perceived myself as God. This prompted Riya to erupt in laughter before abruptly departing, leaving me profoundly affected by Jack's comments. The gravity of the situation compelled me to tender my resignation instantly, even while on a delivery. However, upon reflecting, I attempted to retract my hasty resignation the next morning. Despite my efforts, my request was denied. I also sought to file a complaint against Jack's behavior, but this, too, was not allowed. This was not the first instance of abuse angle at me by Jack.

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When I showed up for my next stint, I was informed that I would be on Garden Leave for the remaining tenure of my notice period. This felt no less than an instant dismissal to me. I felt cornered into this situation which agitated me greatly - a sensation similar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Consequently, I was ready to unleash my form of swift retaliation against this unjust corporation, and as per tradition, it was via verbal means. Since Riya was the subject of their original issue, I directed my verbal warnings towards her. I never directly voiced anything to Riya - it was the other office staff who did that, revealing their true nature.

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There was a point in time when I was apprehended, then released on bail, all while an investigation was underway. Concurrently, I found myself losing my legal support in the disrepair dispute, as the ARKAS team refused to take legal action against the council. This move was driven by pure fear. Yet, the condition of my housing remains dire with at least half the necessary repairs not done. In this extended tug of war, the council emerged victorious against ARKAS. 

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Driven to desperation, I sent a stern message to the council. The essence of the message was simple: Carry out the repairs or face the consequence of a metaphorical home-burning. However, my words were misconstrued by a council worker who shockingly saw this as a threat to her personal dwelling. This was certainly not my intention. 

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Following this, the council involved local law enforcement in the matter. As expectation would have it, the police were on the side of the council, turning a deaf ear to my experience, which has persistently been the state of affairs in every dispute.

 

As I stand on the threshold of Christmas 2020, Barkingside Magistrates decide to hold me in custody for my alleged transgressions against the council. I've already been granted bail for a previous incident at Domino's, and it appears that the law enforcement has conveniently sidestepped the episode at B & Q. Naturally, this angers me to my core, but it's sadly just the tip of the iceberg in regards to the deplorable depths this nation stoops to, especially when it comes to penalizing the mentally distressed individuals. This grievous fact, I'm unfortunate to be privy to through my personal experiences. Our prisons are overflowing from edge to edge because a significant fraction of the mentally ill population is incarcerated here, turning these prison cells into their personal torments. It's a quintessential representation of yet another western nation's failure to address and solve its underlying issues. Currently, my journey through this dire reality has led me to a stop at HMP Thameside in London.

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Initially, HMP Thameside didn't seem too unpleasant. In spite of my best efforts, I was incapacitated to make any contact with my family due to my lack of their details. It felt like a saving grace when Daron's address suddenly came to mind, enabling me to pen down a letter. However, the shadow of COVID had forced a lockdown in HMP Thameside, confining us prisoners to our cells barring a meager 30 minutes a day for exercise. With all our meals delivered at our doorstep, the food was inevitably cold by the time it arrived. I shared my cell with another inmate from Kent, who was anticipating a movement to a jail close to his home turf. The only solace was his access to vapes, which sufficed our nicotine cravings. All I could contribute was to provide him company, sparing him the misery of sharing a cell with someone going through the painful throes of heroin withdrawal.

 

Following the New Year's festivities, my former companion was transferred, and the anticipation for meeting my next cellmate began. I enjoyed a few peaceful days before leaving the induction wing. My new company turned out to be a Muslim zealot whose temperament was often on a boiling point. However, to my relief, I was informed of my release the following day. Apparently, I had been granted bail but was in the dark about the court proceedings, thus things remained somewhat shrouded in mystery.

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It's now mid-January 2021, and I've just made it back home. My current state? Tagged with an assigned curfew and numerous bail restrictions. The dice were loaded even before the game began, and there was barely a flicker of hope of avoiding jail. Living in the 21st century, we've somehow deluded ourselves into believing that incarceration is the answer. But the cold hard facts painfully contradict this. Every time I've experienced the harsh realities of prison, I've emerged as a more broken version of myself than when I entered. The promise of rehabilitation within prison walls is empty at best; the so-called "offending" courses they push are widely regarded among inmates as an utter charade, crafted by those who have never known the true roots of criminal behavior. These academics, presenting themselves as experts on crime causation, produce work that is staggeringly one-sided, heavily biased and thus largely ignored. People only feign interest in hopes of an early parole ticket. 

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I believe the first step towards an alternative to imprisonment would be enforced relocations from the neighborhoods where offenses are committed. It is a more proactive approach than mere incarceration, effectively removing individuals from their usual circles of crime. Moreover, I advocate for the increased use of therapy. A significant number of criminals aren't the original perpetrators, but rather they were once victims themselves. Childhood abuse, unstable homes, deficiency in parenting, or addictive friends, the list is extensive. If we offer these lawbreakers therapy to address their grim histories, perhaps, our society could be more functional.

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The tendency of society to readily incarcerate individuals rather than offer help highlights a fundamental flaw in our system. It's undeniable that prisons often breed hardened criminals with their sky-high recidivism rates. The lack of forgiveness and societal punishment endured by ex-convicts upon their release only perpetuates this disturbing trend. Our society is failing as it marginalizes the most fragile sections of the community, pushing them towards criminal acts. The judicial system falls short in addressing the real human impacts of these issues, making it a laughing stock. 

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There are more effective tactics for addressing crime than simply resorting to imprisonment. Having offenders participate in group therapy sessions with victims of other crimes could stir empathy and enlighten them of the consequences of their actions. Of course, severe crimes necessitate severe sentences, but these are often exceptions designed to safeguard society. It's baffling that climate activists, who are fighting against humanity's self-inflicted climate crisis, are often incarcerated instead. The overuse of imprisonment is prevalent and the statistics clearly indicate its ineffectiveness. Yet, the trend continues, fueled by a blatant disregard for these facts.

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It's high time for an overall societal healing. Let's focus on aiding those grappling with abiding by the law, and put an end to the cycle of animosity that's saturated our social fabric. We're all striving souls on this celestial orb, battling to make our lives work. There has been a shift towards egoism in our society and an evaporating compassion for our fellow man, reflecting a shattered society that's failing its citizens. It's time to instigate the healing and terminate the vicious cycles, which I daresay would halt much of the crime that occurs. We need to start viewing criminals as victims too, or else we risk fostering a society that's unworthy of the grandeur of life.

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Regrettably, the current state of the United Kingdom's legal system reflects antiquated moral outlooks akin to the Middle Ages. We can't continuously penalize without expecting to foster a perpetuating cycle of crime. Our society is fractured, and recognizing this truth is a vital first step to addressing the root causes, finding more constructive solutions rather than heartlessly discarding the proverbial keys. Rise above the short-sightedness; demonstrate to the globe what you've indeed accomplished in the past.

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It felt like I was in constant surveillance once I was out on bail for allegations from my council. The law enforcement officers seemingly disagreed with the court's decision to grant me bail, exploiting their authority to try and overturn the court's ruling. At some point, I couldn't hold the frustration anymore and expressed my outburst towards my probation officer, going as far as to disparage the presiding judge. To my least surprise, I was called back to stand before the same judge at Snaresbrook Crown Court. They remanded me instantly, but to me, it was a relief. At least, I wouldn't have to endure the constant pursuits from the police, or so I optimistically thought.

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Rudely awakened from the sweet illusions of relief, I was soon thrust into the harsh realities within the freezing walls of HMP Pentonville. The venomous sounds of the iron doors clanging together reverberated in my ears, drowning out the audible gasps that escaped my lips. Far from the delusion of escaping police pursuits, I was now ensnared in an environment where their authority was omnipresent, their scrutiny unending. 

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In this grueling existence, each minute fell heavy on my heart, echoing the uncertainty that shrouded my fate. The path that led me here was paved with mistakes and imbued with lessons so profound that they would imprint deep within the crevices of my now weary conscience. I began to ruminate on my choices, simmering in regret and yearning for an interrupted course where I was on the side of the law. But, remember this, no path is beyond redemption. Despite you being submerged in the vortex of your problems, there's a possibility to emerge and reinvent yourself. Life can squeeze you into uncomfortable corners, you might stumble, mess up, but it's never too late to rewrite your narrative. Take this as a gentle reminder to follow your conscience, to acknowledge your mistakes, and vow to do better. Let this be a new chapter in the text of my life.

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The Virus by Michael Ezare Barrett

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In the shadows, it crept unseen, 

A silent specter, cold and keen. 

A world brought low by unseen hand, 

From bustling cities to quiet land. 

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It whispers fear in every breath, 

Turning life’s embrace to dance with death. 

No longer safe in crowded throng, 

Our tender hearts must now be strong. 

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Windows close, doors seal tight, 

Loneliness becomes our night. 

Yet within these walls, hope flickers bright, 

As science races for morning's light. 

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The elderly, frail, and young alike, 

Shielded from this viral strike. 

Lessons learned and sacrifices made, 

The path to health through trials laid. 

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For in sorrow’s wake we rise, 

Strengthened by our shared goodbyes. 

Each mask, a symbol, each vaccine, a shield, 

As the world begins to heal.