Surviving Ward 209: Shaking Hands with a Killer in Evin Prison

Day Four: The VIP Treatment

As I stood there, mentally reviewing my 72 hours in prison paradise, I realized I had been processed and swiftly escorted to corridor 8—a place so luxurious, it made five-star resorts look like a cheap motel. Before the lights went out (because who doesn’t want a little mood lighting in prison?), we were all lined up like extras in some badly done Broadway show to make sure no one was “missing.” Missing? In Evin’s notorious ward? Sure, that makes sense.

Then, in the middle of this glamorous lineup, there he was.

Enter Mr. Chiseled Hands

This guy. If creepy were an Olympic event, he’d be a gold medalist. Tall, muscled, with a mustache that screamed “I definitely should be on a most-wanted list” and glasses that said, “I’m probably a serial killer.” His hands? They looked like they could crush a watermelon—or more likely, my spinal cord if he got bored.

The old guard, reading names as though auditioning for a role in Zombie Apocalypse: Bureaucracy Edition, skipped this guy’s full name. Uh-oh. That was the first clue—if you don’t get the full name, you’re probably dealing with an ex-agent from the Ministry of Intelligence. How exciting!

Then, the guard came over to me with his charismatic grin and asked if I needed anything. And because I was now an expert in surviving Evin (you know, from my extensive experience of 72 hours), I replied, “No, thanks, I’m good.”

Apparently, that’s the golden answer. Asking for a blanket? Bad idea.

I did know the judge had banned me from writing or drawing. Yes, writing. In a prison. But guess what? I had already drawn a little sketch of the funny guard who registered me. Oops. Guess I’m a rebel now.

A Handshake with the Grim Reaper’s Assistant

A few minutes later, Mr. Chiseled Hands came sauntering over with all the warmth of a very friendly executioner—the kind who might offer you a cigarette before, you know, executing you.

We shook hands, and sweet mother of all things unholy, those hands! I swear, if he had squeezed just a little harder, my bones would’ve turned to powder, and I’d have floated away like a human dust cloud.

Ah, yes. My expert. As if I had been assigned a personal life coach instead of an interrogator whose sole job was to make sure I admitted to crimes I didn’t even know existed.

Spoiler alert: I had no clue.

But before he could grace me with any more thrilling conversation, the metal door slammed open like it had just received a final notice from a debt collector, and a voice bellowed:

“Seyyed… Seyyed! You’re being transferred to another ward!”

Mr. Chiseled Hands and I exchanged one last handshake (this time I was alert to react if he wanted to crash my hand, thank God, nothing happened), and he gathered his prized possessions: four blankets (because comfort is key, even in prison), a dented aluminum bowl (priceless, really), and a trusty plastic spoon (probably his emotional support utensil).

He waved goodbye to the rest of us lucky souls marinating in the 4-foot-wide corridor and strutted off like he was heading to a spa retreat instead of another cell.

“Do You Know Who That Was?”

Not even a minute later, one of my fellow inmates, who had clearly designated himself Evin Prison’s Chief Gossip Correspondent, sidled up to me with the kind of smirk you only see on people who know they’re about to ruin your day.

“Hey,” he said, all too casually. “Do you know who you were just talking to?”

I blinked. “Uh… no?”

He grinned, pausing for maximum dramatic effect.

“That guy? He was one of the agents who murdered the writers and Dariush Forouhar and his wife last year. You remember how the Forouhars were stabbed?”

Cue the dramatic music swelling in the background.

I felt my soul temporarily exit my body. My bladder immediately filed a formal protest. I had just been cheerfully shaking hands with a man who could’ve ended me with a flick of his wrist—and all he needed was for someone higher up to casually say, “Yeah, go ahead.”

The Chain Murders & My Brush with Death

Ah, 1998. The good old days when the government decided to spice things up with a little something called the Chain Murders—a VIP elimination package for writers, intellectuals, and anyone who thought too much.

And I? Well, I had just had a friendly moment with the Grim Reaper’s executive assistant himself.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Any more surprises, or was this Evin’s version of an all-inclusive nightmare package?

Would I live to see the light of dawn, or was I just one plot twist away from becoming the next ghost haunting this place?

Luxury Prison Furniture & Cell Transfers

The next day, I made an astonishing discovery—an absolute masterpiece of avant-garde prison design:

The broken toilet bowl near the cell door.

Some incredibly innovative former inmates had thoughtfully stacked a few thick books on top of it, transforming it into a highly exclusive standing desk. Move over, Silicon Valley! This was peak ergonomic design. Want to write your memoirs? Boom—toilet-table. Need a spot to read about philosophy while contemplating the futility of your existence? Done. It even had a vintage touch, thanks to years of questionable plumbing decisions.

I took a closer look at the books, expecting gripping tales of past inmates or at least some outdated phone books. But no! The prison library delivered. There sat Bertrand Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy (perfect for pondering why exactlyI was in this situation) and Stephen Kinzer’s All the Shah’s Men (a little light reading about coups, because, you know, context). Naturally, I borrowed them—from the toilet-table—because where else would one find such literature?

Just when I thought my day of high culture and unexpected home décor inspiration couldn’t get any better, I got the classic prison plot twist: cell transfer! Because apparently, one day was more than enough of my cellmate’s grippingstories—who, might I remind you, was sentenced to death for hijacking a charter plane. Yeah. A charter plane. Not some grand, cinematic Air Force One situation—no, no. This was the prison equivalent of stealing a minivan and expecting to make the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

So, off I went to my next five-star accommodation, curious what architectural wonders and delightful new acquaintances awaited me.

Day Three: Welcome to the Horror Show

Ah, day three. A day filled with fresh prison experiences, like waking up and realizing that you are, in fact, still in prison.But just when I thought things might get a little monotonous, one of my fellow inmates got called in for his quality bonding time with his expert. He looked fine when he left at 9 AM—like, normal fine. The kind of fine that suggests, “Yeah, this interrogation thing is just routine. No big deal.”

Fast forward to 8 PM, and—oh, look!—two guards gently (read: indifferently) dumped his barely-breathing body back into our cell, like a delivery service that specializes in damaged goods.

By “alive,” I mean in the same way that an old, dented taxi that’s been in one too many accidents is technically still a car—it might move, but God help you if you try to drive it. He was unconscious, his body there but his mind somewhere else entirely—probably still stuck in that interrogation room. Whatever special treatment they had given him, it had hollowed him out. His breath was shallow, his skin was clammy, and his hands twitched like they were still expecting another blow.

The worst part? Nobody even reacted. No gasps, no outrage—just a quiet shuffle as we made space for him on the freezing floor. This was normal here. We all knew that when a man leaves looking whole and comes back looking broken, the only thing you can do is let him have his silence—because there were no words that could fix him.

And just when you thought this hallmark evening couldn’t get any better—midnight hits. And guess what? The screaming starts.

Nothing says sweet dreams quite like the guttural, spine-chilling screams of a man fresh from the Evin Spa Deluxe Treatment—a one-of-a-kind experience where the customer is always wrong and the deep-tissue massage involves actual bruises.

It was like sharing a room with a horror movie sound effects department, except there was no off switch, no background music to soften the mood, and definitely no popcorn to make it remotely enjoyable. Just pure, unfiltered terror, echoing through the walls like a haunted house designed by government contractors.

Sleep? Oh, sure! If by sleep you mean lying there so still that by morning, someone might as well draw a chalk outline around me and call in the detectives.

Of course, this wasn’t my first experience with unexpected bedtime audio horror. My first night had already set the bar impressively high—courtesy of my previous hijacker cellmate. Because waiting for your execution is apparently the perfect reason to howl at the moon like a tortured werewolf.

So there I was, lying in my luxurious prison bunk (read: a cold, hard surface that even with the blankets I used as my mattress, the frozen floor actively hated my existence), being serenaded by the sweet, sweet sounds of human suffering, wondering what other delightful surprises awaited me in the Evin Bed & Breakfast Experience.

And then came the weird, noise…

It was around 3 AM when a shrill, never-ending screech tore through the silence, yanking all of us out of whatever half-sleep we had managed to steal. It wasn’t just loud—it was the kind of piercing, unnatural sound that made your spine tighten and your brain panic before you even understood why.

I groggily got up to shuffle toward the bathroom, rubbing my eyes, when one of the inmates muttered, “This is torture. They do it to keep prisoners awake.”

Oh. Lovely. Sleep deprivation—because solitary confinement and occasional beatings just weren’t enough.

Another inmate, sounding half-annoyed, half-amused, added, “Or maybe some guard fell asleep and hit the wrong button.”

Ah, yes. Nothing like accidental psychological warfare at 3 AM to keep the vibes in Evin fresh and unpredictable.