That he will be forgotten. To fade away, alone and lonely. There were dear friends once, but now there is only waiting. Waiting for letters that never come. Waiting for death, having already died to the world.
The memory of a little boy at Christmastime, usurped by a crime committed. Where once a beloved aunt kissed his cherubic cheeks, now there is only disappointment. Yet even that fades.
And that is the most frightening thing of all. It is not infamy that the prisoner fears most; it is obscurity. The slow descent from a cherished memory to less than a passing thought.