Look at you wilting away in the corner, letting the water trickle down on your forehead like a victim of Chinese water torture. You’ve been in this concrete box for eight months, and already the fortifications you spent a lifetime building have been dismantled. You act as though the debris has fallen around you, constraining your pathetic limbs to that morsel of space. Are you not aware that another wall is ten feet away where the ceiling above is less decrepit and does not have water seeping from its cracks? Why don’t you relocate so as to attain at least an ounce of comfort? Where is your strength? Submit you to a little solitude and all your walls come falling down. You sit beneath the only reservoir this shithole has to offer, but instead of catching the leaking rain on your tongue and attempting to rejuvenate your rotting corpse, you let it land on your face like a metronome for your demise.
In the darkness nobody can see your shame as you bow your head and press your knees into your temples, tugging at your hair like you can actually rip this insanity from your mind. You are your only witness, but you are the only witness that matters, after all, for you hold the key to your fate. You can knead your legs all you want, but it will not relieve the ache. Even when you are released from this box and return to the world, that pulsating tinge in your flesh will persist and burrow through your bones. Now you know what it sounds like for them to be shattered by a weapon you held in your own hands; how blood smells when it pools on the ground before your feet. They came after you and you reacted out of self defense. It’s as simple as that. You aren’t in here because you did something wrong, but because people on the inside are looking for the opportune moment to slit your throat and spill you dry. Think of this cage as a source of protection. Consider this your safe haven, not your dungeon. One day you will evade this place after your time has been served, and you will return to your previous life and breathe again, but you have to hold on.
Feel the air creeping through the space beneath the iron door? That’s not a draft. That’s your son blowing out his birthday candles, wishing that his father would come into the dining room and see just how much he’s grown. That’s your wife exhaling upon the empty bed space, hoping that her breath will be answered by yours. Have you already forgotten the ones you left behind? They are outside these walls, reaping every moment of your absence like a daily vitamin, when, in fact, they know they’re imbibing hemlock. They endure the pain because they remember the elation of having you close, and they believe that you will return. Whether or not the reunion unfolds is up to you. Do not let yourself succumb to the existence of a beaten dog locked in a kennel with a sheet pulled over the grate. Dig beyond your sternum and your heart and wrench any dignity that still exists to the surface. Move closer to that door and allow the meager light to brush over you so that your pallid skin may regain its color. Better, yet, make the choice to move on your own and prove that you can still stand.
No comments:
Post a Comment