The Prisoner (I)
A short chapter from my novel
NOTE: *Internal monologue is denoted by «»*
«I often wonder, why did they put my room facing this way, looking across a vast expanse. Is it some form of psychological torture, for me to look out onto a panorama whilst being made infuriatingly impotent by these bars»
«I am powerless within these walls and for what? I search my mind for the answer endlessly in my empty hours. The why questions hardly make sense anymore. At any point earlier in my life I couldn’t explain how I was going to end up like this, I didn’t dare even think it. Prison is a dead end in more ways than one, there’s nowhere else to go, everything stops here. No amount of will can break through that simple fact of reality. My God how loathesome, I droop and despair all day, then I eat something and then go to bed. Repeat.»
He was himself a soldier, much like the soldiers he sometimes stared out onto from his cell window. Both prisoners in that sense, but the soldiers were stalwart and merry still. The souls of the departed rarely succumb to depressive episodes. Far too animated indeed they are. But for the ghostly soldiers they were disheartened to see a man whom they so loved look longly in their direction so often. It brought a tear to their inner hearts. If only they had the form and power to free him they would. But in their limited means they sought to instill in him a spirit of perseverance, so that one day he might find the joy to carry on.
“Roll call!” yelled the prison guard. They stood all lined up out front of their cells, straight as sticks. “Macdonald, McKenzie, Abbot, August.” The officer blurted out name after name, and they all stood there, still as a Picasso. August’s train of thought tortured him always: «the only way I know the names of these stiffs is because of this roll call. We have never spoken once, despite me being in this place a year now. Why should I talk to them anyways? Does a dead man speak with the living?»
What spirit possessed his mind to think this way? Of course the dead speak with the living. But indeed August was too blind to see. So he laments ceaselessly.
***
At lunch he sat alone on a metal bench that was drilled into the concrete floor of the mess hall. The food they served was better than what you would imagine prison food would taste like. This was because he wasn’t in a high security part of the prison. Theft, theft was what August was booked for.
«I wonder what it will be like to cook again once I leave, will I still remember? Will I leave at all? I used to like cooking this and that. I was never very good at it, but it was fun.»
There was nothing to look at, just other men fraternising, some with chips on their shoulder, itching to get out. Others were happy to be there, some couldn’t think as far as the next day, that’s probably how they ended up here in the first place. The guards watched from their offices and posts, ever so stalwart, routine, almost bored. There were no prison philosophers, only insofar as each man must be a philosopher for himself.
«In the night times and in the mornings, a cool breeze comes off the lake and into my room through the window, it’s always reminding me that it’s out there and I’m in here. Why? So much thinking and never a response to the question.»
August laid on his bed and stared at the concrete ceiling long into the dark hours of the night. It was often hard for him to sleep. Mostly because he feared how long he would have to be awake tomorrow. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to stay; a life of limbo. But that night as he stared absently and wide awake, a strange occurrence began to transpire.
“Son… son” August was alarmed, «A voice?!» He remained still and listened. “Son, son, listen to me.” August said nothing outloud, but in his head he replied, «Yes?» “What’s wrong son?” Still answering with his thoughts, «I’m not sure I know the answer to that question.» “Then how do you expect to get better?” «Get better?» But there was no reply. The spirit had left just as it had came, or had anything really happened at all? August reflected that events such as this had never happened to him before and certainly not since he had been interned here. Soon after however he was able to fall asleep, curious if something similar might happen tomorrow.
***
The sun rose and glistened off of the water as usual. The beauty almost brought a tear to the eye of a drowsy August. Here was life again. This place used to have a certain smell to him, now all was regular, the air freshened his nostrils as he prepared himself with his metal sink. He had no mirror in his cell, which might have benefitted him in the end, he often wondered if the next time he saw himself clearly in the mirror he would recognise himself at all. Then the roll call proceeded as usual.
The rest of the day was regular as well, same old food, old faces, old thoughts. Then in the quiet hours of the evening as August stood looking longingly out of his window he saw some glow coming off of the water… squinting his eyes to focus on the apparition he heard some faint whisper once more. “Lay on the ground…” August listened more closely “Lay on the ground” the voice whispered. Without questioning much August lay on the cold concrete floor with belly to the floor. There was a second pause… “Now raise yourself.” August was confused, “Raise yourself!” The whisper commanded forcefully. August lifted himself off of the ground in the form of a push up. “Return” August went back to the floor, “Repeat this seven times.” After August barely completed the last push up, his arms were in pain. He had never worked out much in his life, tired and back on the concrete floor his hands were slightly marked from the friction. The voice was quiet but something else was screaming out from inside of him. A primordial corporeality was revealing something to him that he had not felt for many years: eudaimonia.
He slept like a baby that night, dreaming of nothing and waking brightly the next morning. The cold breeze that came in through his window that morning had a different quality to it. It smelled like flowers in bloom, fresh air came into his lungs and sustained him, it was the coal which kept the fire in his heart burning. “My God!” August exclaimed, “has this feeling always been within me?” And he wondered where it had been all of his life.
With diligence he cleaned himself that morning and stood straighter than ever for roll call. “August!” as they called out his name, he felt such a strong connection with it «aye, that’s me» he proudly responded in his mind. What had happened to him he couldn’t quite understand, it had to have been that voice, it was real after all, but where did the voice go now and when could he hear it again? With anticipation he thought it over again and again. But as he sat and ate his lunch he heard nothing and there was only a heightened awareness within him, he was awaiting something with great vigilance, but nothing came.
As August was undergoing his routine ruminations that evening he still could not stop thinking about the night prior. Surely any second now it would happen again, that was the pattern, «the voice will visit me now surely.»
Silence, nothing but the gentle waves and the breeze along the tree line. So sobering were those sounds that you could in some sense become drunk off of the acute sentiments they produced. Like the prick of a needle they encompassed the senses. «When will it happen?» August became nervous. He was afraid that the one thing that made his life interesting could disappear forever like the phantom that it was. Then he would have to go back to living his same old life, relapse into a disconnected depression.
After another half an hour he hopelessly assumed the same position on the floor that he had been in last night. Trying anything he could think of to make something happen he began to do push ups once more. One, two, three, four, five, six… seven… eight. He paused… nine, his arms shaking he attempted one final push up. As he slowly lifted himself up he felt like he was going to collapse but there was always just that little extra bit of strength he could muster «Make it. I must rise.» “Very good.” Said the voice, August completed the final bit of his tenth push up with ease, his arms and chest were in pain. “Is that you?” August called out loud. “Yes son, I see you have understood my meaning.” “Why were you silent all day?” But the voice was gone. Despite that, August was elated and rejoiced in his heart. He vowed that every day he would do more and more push ups. So that he might uncover the intentions of the ghostly voice. Since that night August slept soundly and with a subtle grin on his face.