Utterly isolated, apparently untouched for years – this place has the eerie kind of remoteness where every outside sound is startling and the thought of human habitation borders on the absurd.
The prison is small and old, a mere aging stain in a perfect countryside, a decaying heap of bricks surrounded by forests and a few tended fields. It’s entirely self-contained, from the dormitories to the kitchen and laundry room, the medical exam area, basement shop and tucked-away jail cells for those, presumably, who huffed too much pesticide and started flinging carrots. What's in rare supply are the traces of the inmates.
A strange order prevails. Many of the mattresses are still neatly folded even as the roof is caving in. Most notably, the very few instances of graffiti have already faded, and there are no bathroom or bedside scribbles by the prisoners. Has no one ever really stayed here? Is it all just a weird fata morgana of the cornfields? There isn’t anyone to ask. On a lovely summer day, only an odd sense of tranquility still permeates the corridors.