Please read my work but do not judge it harshly. Constructive comments are welcome and can be sent to this address:

<> [email protected]

Short Story: The Prisoner

T

He screamed aloud, the small voice barely echoing from the distant walls. The chains that bound him were so tight. He could not move, screaming was the only way he knew that he was alive, this provided little comfort, he wished he were dead. The darkness that surrounded him seemed almost tangible; if he could only reach out and touch it he would feel the cold, greasy substance of which it was formed. Straining his eyes, he could make out no shape, not even his own prostrate form was visible before him.

The darkness was touching him, feeling him, assessing him. It prodded at his mind but he could resist for now, but not for long, he was growing weaker all the time. His strength was teased out of him, by the greasy hands that pressed him, like cotton candy at the fairs he visited as a child. He could see the waltzers now, feel the air, cool and fragrant, pushing past him as he spun, shrieking with glee. Voicing the fear he felt then, and feels again, now realising the happy fear for a restrained version of the present, a moulded form, designed to exhilarate and please.

He slips easily in and out of reality, tasting his past like a wine taster his livelihood, spitting each scene into the silver tureen that serves as his mind. Each spectacle attaining a mystical quality, some dimension he had not seen at the time, distracted by his presence. Now relieved of the distraction of being there, he could see the meaning and symbolism held in these passages of his life, see it all in perspective. He could see the path he had taken, could see all the chances offered to him and all the times he had refused these chances. He screamed again, not from fear, but from frustration and anger. Anger that he had never realised the truth up until this moment. He found it hard to believe that this was what it had taken to make him see himself fully.

He slipped away from the darkness once more; fell deeper and deeper into the pitted crevasse of his sanity; saw a rope-bridge spanning the gap, grabbed desperately for it, scared at what awaited his arrival in the depths of his dark spirituality. One finger caught in the frayed framework, a single loud snap, the fibres become so many specks of dust and he is gone. Flailing, silent for once, enveloped by the mist that seems to arise from the yawning ravine beneath him. He falls for longer than time itself, he has always been falling, the rest were dreams of another dimension, he falls, is always falling, deeper and deeper.

He sees light, can see shapes, colours, so many vivid colours, he laughs as a child, as the child he has become. He sees himself below him, upon the shores of a great ocean, he can see himself hunched over, can see his feelings through his new, unfiltered child's eyes. He gazes with awe upon his other crippled self. His other self, one yet not the same, who crawls, hunched along the golden sands. He does not feel the waves lapping gently at his feet, he seems not to notice the bright, golden sunlight that offers to heal his broken form, to make him whole again. The child looks down at the man, lines of consternation chasing across his brow, why can he not see the sunlight, or the sea, or the golden sands sweeping away all around him?

The child feels strong arms reaching around him, he twists around and sees his father, holding him high above the scene below. The child does not speak, there is no need for words, he looks again at his aged self, so far on the shore beneath. The child sees colours around the trudging figure, wild, triumphant and glorious, the colours and the shapes they form excite a feeling of intense jubilation in the young one. The individual by the sea keeps his eyes fixed upon his feet, looking for some symbol of hope in the sand beneath his feet, not realising that all the hope he could ever need is all around him, if he could only look up, tear his gaze from the ground and look up. Then he could experience the colours around him, draw them into himself so he was saturated with colours and shapes; then he need never despair again.

The father of the child pointed, looking downwards, the child saw that the figure of himself was not alone, there were many others following in the footsteps behind him, and he was treading in the footsteps of many before him. The child felt helpless, he could not shout to them, they would not listen, he could not reach them. It was too late for him to help: he was one of them and was unable to help them to see as he could with his new child's eyes.

He looked above him and could see the swirling maelstrom of the sky yawning open, a grin waiting to envelop him. He began to drift upwards, he cried out, but he was alone with the figures on the beach and they could not come to his aid. He reached out to them, beseeching, but it was futile, they were not even aware of his presence. He was reluctant to return to wherever it was that he came from, he could not remember why, but he wanted to stay, to help somehow, but he was pulled inexorably upwards, towards the darkness beyond.

He came back to reality, the bitter darkness filling him once more. His body was once again wracked with agony, he was twisted with nauseating waves of pain. Finally it ends, leaving him alone in the darkness, the last fragments of his dream are shed like an acrid shroud, falling away, deeper into the chasm.

If he ever got out of here he knew . . . knew what? He wanted to tell himself that he would change, but he could not bear to weave further self-illusion into his winding sheet. If he ever were to get out of here, he knew with bitter forethought that he would forget all that he had witnessed in this hellish theatre of the truth, would continue to trudge along the beach with no awareness of the sea or the sky. As soon as the disturbance of his arrival into familiar grounds had died down, he would continue as before, with no thought to the trauma.

T T T T T

His carer looked at him and shook her head sadly. This man had suffered from catatonic schizophrenia for just over three years and she had been with him almost as long. His wife had met another man, someone sensitive who comforted her when her husbands illness first developed, a comfort which soon lead to friendship and later a serious relationship. There was talk of euthanasia, certainly he would be better off, they said. Elsie knew they just wanted him out of the way because he was the only thing impeding their marriage.

Elsie looked into his eyes, as she often did, and saw the flicker again. She knew he was in there, however deep he had buried himself, he was there, if only his wife could see that. She scolded herself for this line of thought. He was as lifeless as he seemed, it was just her imagination which gave him more life than he had. If only there was a cure. That doctor she spoke to claimed to have a cure. It involved large doses of a drug for Parkinson's disease, but as his carer and a professional nurse, she had refused this experimental treatment which could endanger his life.

The front door opened and Elsie heard his wife enter the house with her lover. When she walked into the room, Elsie bobbed obediently before studying her face with an expectant air. It was obvious that they had something to say, they glanced at each other for encouragement, looked everywhere save at Elsie's face, coughed gently before gathering themselves sufficiently to talk to her. Still unable to make eye contact, the wife explained in halting terms that they intended to make a trip to Australia, and take her charge with them.

It was no secret that Elsie had been getting fond of her patient, within the confines of their working relationship, she had begun to think of him as a dear friend. She spoke to him frequently, not knowing if he heard or understood, not really caring. He was a good listener, always seemed attentive, listened to her problems without interrupting or offering unwanted advice. This news came like a slap in the face. She was relieved in some respects, as she would be loosed from the responsibility of trying to rouse him, set free from the worry that he could continue in this way for ever.

The main reason she did not want them to go was that she knew that the euthanasia laws in Australia were more lenient, which meant that someone could undergo voluntary euthanasia. Involuntary euthanasia was also practised if the patient had been in a comatose state for four years or more, but his would not be a problem as there were so many clauses and sub-clauses to this law that there could easily be a loophole enabling them to kill him sooner.

Elsie was shocked at the label she had put on the whole affair, after all, he was almost dead anyway, it could not be murder when only a small portion of his brain remained active.

The emotions felt within Elsie were concealed professionally and efficiently, her feelings were barely betrayed by a brief flicker of colour across her face, but that was all. She expressed her thoughts that it was probably all for the best, the climate was better after all, anything was worth a try. A brief embarrassing silence followed, broken by Elsie's enquiry as to the date for departure, which was very soon, the end of the week, in fact. Elsie was shocked. Only a few days to do anything she could to revive him.

The next couple of days passed like a blur, the threat of Australia looming over them like a death sentence. Elsie read to him non-stop, as she could not sleep, night and day. She read him any books she could get her hands on in an attempt to bring back consciousness. Nothing provoked any response.

On his last full day in the country, Elsie began to get desperate, reading anything which could arouse him from his deathly slumber. She borrowed books from friends and neighbours, tried everything from classics to horror, from science fiction to romance but nothing seemed to work. She began to get agitated and tears of sheer frustration welled down her cheeks as she cradled his head in her hands. The salted drops pattering gently off his clammy skin to land in dim pools on the tiled floor beneath them. Pattering gently all around him, splashing into the pools beneath him, the levels in the pools rising, threatening to drown them both in a wave of melancholia.

Suddenly his eyes opened, and from his drowning body there erupted a loud and agonised scream, agonised for all the years he has wasted when he could have woken up at will, he could have prevented his wife's betrayal, if only he had known how to escape from the torment sooner.

T T T T T

He awoke, screaming aloud, from this, the most disturbing dream yet, made all the more so for the plausibility of the scenario created by his tortured, tormenting mind. One aspect of the dream remained constant: the salted water, dripping around and over him at an alarming rate, pattering upon his upturned face, upon his closed eyelids, his fevered brow, his dry, cracked lips, running down his parched throat with deceptive liquid refreshment.

Hours passed in this manner, the brine flowing into his open mouth, he received eagerly at first, seeking an end to the raging thirst, but then retching in distaste as the true nature of this torture was discovered. The fluid reached half way up his horizontal form, by now he was feeling its glacial embrace, creating gooseflesh all over his exposed skin. The water level rose steadily, first causing his tattered clothing to cling protectively to his bony body, then causing it to billow gently, as though caught in a summer breeze.

He strained his body, forcing his chin above the level of the water, fighting valiantly for that which he had for so long taken for granted. The icy touch caused the rate of his heart beats to fall in an echo of the drops falling and drumming upon every part of his body. The drops probed him, assessing his weakness, covering his body entirely before running into his open mouth, down his throat, filling his lungs as he involuntarily drew breath. His last wish was one of hope, hope that at the last moment he would hear the discordant hum of human voices, there would be a loud blast as of many trumpets, a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders, the fiery walls would rush back and an outstretched arm would catch him as he fell, fainting, into the abyss.

His very final thought was for Elsie: would she grieve for his death, the fictional character there when he wanted her but absent when she was his only hope for revival? He drifted away, falling deper into the chasm which no longer was spanned by a rope bridge.

T T T T T

Elsie pushes the heavy door closed behind them and flicks the catch. Alone in the house for the first time in three years, she walks slowly up the narrow stairs and into her small, flowered bedroom. She drags the large suitcase out from under her old, creaky bed and begins to fill it with the various items she has accumulated over the years. Clicking the case shut, she turns, takes out her pearl earrings and places them carefully upon the mahogany table beside her bed. She pulls off her blue striped apron, folds it and lays it upon her blue, floral duvet. She picks up the suitcase and carries it downstairs.

Leaning it against the dark wall in the narrow hallway, she sits upon the creaky stairs and slips her thin feet into her scruffy shoes. She pulls on her large brown overcoat and wraps her fluffy, red scarf tightly about her neck. She puts her front door key upon the small, wooden table in the hallway, next to the telephone. Opening the door, she steps out into the night, drawing the cool air deeply into her lungs with barely a thought. She closes the door carefully behind her, hearing the latch click. She walks along her garden path and opens her gate. It squeaks, but she does not think about oiling it. Pushing the gate gently closed behind her, she walks down the street without pausing to look back.