Within the first five minutes of meeting my third cell-mate it was clear that we were going to struggle to live together. A few people in the hall have told me that he’s had a series of pairings that ended up with at least one of the pair becoming violent. He made it clear from the start that it was HIS cell and that he did not have any obligation to accommodate my needs. My point of view was that it was OUR cell and that we had to find a way to share the space.

The rules that he attempted to lay down can be summarised like this:

1. I was not allowed to touch the curtains except to open them so that quarter of the window was uncovered – and not until he was ready to get up…which could be anything from 8 30am to 3pm.

2. I was not allowed to use the room’s plastic chair and desk unless he was out at his woodwork session (which lasted 2 1/2 hours, three times a week). The rest of our locked-in time (an average of 18 hours a day), I was expected to sit up on my top bunk.

3. I was not allowed to change the TV channel or put the radio on unless he was away at his woodwork session.

4. After sunset, the only light I was allowed to out on was the toilet cubicle light… which meant that if I wanted to read or write after 6pm I was expected to sit on the floor outside the toilet.

Call me unreasonable…but I wasn’t willing to stick to these rules. Clearly the situation that we had going on WASN’T going to work. It occurred to me that I may be gaining some insight into what life must be like for someone living with an abusive partner.

I put in a request to move room, on the grounds that he had threatened to beat me up twice, and that he had unrealistic expectations about how the room should be shared. I was told by the wardens that I may be moved when a room became available, and that there was “no more to be said on the matter”. As the days went by, I realised that there was a pretty high chance that I would get a broken nose before they moved me to a different room.

One morning as he’s preparing to go out to his art class, I adjust the curtains to allow more light to enter the room. He immediately starts shouting: “Why are you touching my fucking curtains? You don’t go near those”. I tell him that when he’s in the room he can have them the way he likes them, but that when he goes out to his art class (for 2 and 1/2 blissful hours, three times a week) I will adjust them so that there is enough daylight for me to read. “You will leave them like that, you fucking prick”, he replies. I quickly scamper up onto my bunk bed and sit against the wall with my knees bent up in front of me. I feel safer in this position. I pick up a book before I start speaking, “when you’re out of the room I will adjust them the way I want them. I’ll put them back the way you like them when you come back.”

He spins around to face me, his eyes wide and his mouth contorted into a grimace. In my mind, I rehearse a defensive move, kicking my heels out in front of me and making contact with his face. I imagine that his nose will make a crunching sound “This is my cell. Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me how things are gonna be?”, he spits. I reply “This is not your room. This is our room, and we need to share the space between us”.

His anger ramps up a level. He leans forward and his shoulders rise up a few inches, making appear considerably bigger. His teeth are clenched and bared. His voice rises in volume: “You can’t fucking tell me what to do. This is my cell, you fucking bastard.” “It is not”, I reply firmly, my eyes locked onto his. He continues: “You carry on like this and I’ll punch your fucking cunt in”.

I shake my head slowly and disconnect myself from the argument by looking down at the pages of my book. He continues to shout as I stare down at the text.