Which part of this story is true?

I will tell you a story which is only partly true. Which half is fact and which part is fiction?

Eighteen year old Darrin’s insides churned and he winced as the double steel door shut with a loud clank behind him. He was being led held by his arm by a woman who looked polished in her guard’s uniform. He thought, “I can take her”. Ahead of them was a double door entry more formidable looking than the first. He was beginning to feel the pinch of the handcuffs and leg irons. He tried to focus on other things and noticed how clean and shiny the floor was. He liked that as he was a neat freak. His mind flew back to the days when he still lived at home. His mother had insisted on teaching him the value of cleanliness. “It just makes good sense” she would say and as if to drive her point home, she would add “Cleaniless is next to Godliness.”

Darrin always found it ironic how his mother could preach Sunday values and still drink like tomorrow would never come and as he grew into a young boy, things his mother said and then the things she did weren’t necessarily one and the same. Still, she had been the lesser of two evils. His father was the anti-Christ and Darrin hated him. It’s very difficult to love the person who was entrusted with your care but instead of giving encouragement, hope and love, beat you senseless and then toyed with you as if you were Pinnochio and he Giapetto. His mother was just as much of a coward as her husband because she was an enabler. She blindly accepted the beatings but in fairness to her, sometimes took them in place of Darrin. No Girl Scout badges or Brownie points for her, at least as far as Darrin was concerned. Hate? Not a strong enough word to describe what he felt for his father and if he had his way, his father would suffer much at his hands. For every beating he received, he would make his father pay until the very last breath was beaten and tortured out of his old stinking body. It was a long, clumsy walk down a seemingly endless corridor with one door exactly the same as the other with the only difference being the numbers painted on them.

There was a new kid in town and everyone could smell the ‘fresh meat.’ Darrin’s face remained as stoic as possible but he was frightened. He felt that if anything was going to be taken from him, had already been beaten out of him and the next dolt who tried, was going to get a taste of the medicine which was reserved for his father. They were now in Block A. They stopped in front of cell number A-715. There were no bars. This wasn't jail. It was prison. The reinforced steel door had a small window at eye level and a trap door lower than the handle. That’s where Darrin was going to receive his food tray and communicate with other inmates and prison staff. The guard motioned for him to step inside. She placed her mouth closer to the walkie-talkie she wore on her shoulder and the door slammed shut. She opened the trap door and told Darrin to kneel with his back to the door. She unlocked the iron bracelets and for the first time in hours, he could move his hands and arms about freely. In the same fashion, she told him to place one foot on the trap door and unlocked one side of the restraints and did the same to the other side. Having done her job, she left.

Darrin looked around him. There, to greet him, were barren cement walls, a built-in cement single bed with a thin matress, sheets, a blanket and a pillow which had seen better days and was more deflated than an old bag’s face. His thoughts raced and he started to panic. He was having some kind of anxiety attack and he was having trouble breathing. He sat heavily on the bed and held his head in his hands for the longest time. Blissfully sleep claimed him. He opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed, in his mother’s house. Was he dreaming or was his nightmare real?