The Justice of Hell
Dirt…dirt was everywhere. And blackness, blackness that pressed angrily against his open eyes, blinding him. A multitude of emotions would have once washed over him at the thought of being here. Here was the hell that they called justice…the hell that they called Azkaban.
Most prisoners relived their worst memories over and over. He knew they did, because each day, shrill shrieks echoed through the building, bouncing from wall to wall, bouncing on his eardrums, and increasing the pounding in his mind. But most went quiet, quiet from finally becoming what they were here to become…insane. Quiet, insane, and left to their thoughts.
Azkaban, which he had once thought of as justice, wasn't. The ministry said that they protected the people and kept in the prisoners by having the dementors aid them. They said that the mouldy bread and soot black water was all that they deserved.
But that wasn't so. Even the cruellest of person didn't deserve to become trapped in their memories...their minds. To see only black everyday, to be convinced that because of their past mistakes they could never change. To develop any and every psychological problem there was…that was not justice. It was not a teaching method…it was a dictator method. For no one ever got out. Most would lay upon the existence that they once called life, permanently trapped inside their own minds, feeling their physical limits more than ever before. One day's visits could turn a man's eyes blank for a month, unlawful imprisonments could turn a person on himself…make him think that it was his fault when he was innocent.
The prison was not justice. It was indirect homicide. Instead of working their life away by doing hard labor, talking through what went wrong, and learning from their past, the inmates were tortured mentally. He had heard that it was not like this in the muggle world, that justice was less blood-thirsty. He envied the fairness the muggles received. Some of the prisoners committed suicide. Most died from finally succumbing to the voices in their minds, voices of their past. Most died because they allowed their mental condition to rule them.
This was the justice of the wizarding world. Justice was to turn someone's head against their heart, to turn someones body' against their head. It was a vicious cycle. This was the justice of the wizarding world, the justice of hell. And he now knew that the real crime was not who murdered, or stole, or broke the law. The real crimes were of those people who had put him in here, the people who brought down 'justice' upon others but never experienced it themselves. This was hell…and the wizarding world was unknowingly supporting the devil's own demons.
The justice of hell…there simply wasn't any.
Sirius Black placed his back against a grimy stone wall and stared at the top of his cell, trying imagining he could see the stars instead of a grimy ceiling. But he couldn't even imagine it.