A Hopeless Journal for A Helpless Man

Chapter 8: Freedom's Price

I used to enjoy shorelines or beaches of any kind really. To me, they have always served as a symbol of relaxation or as a supposed unspoiled garden of calm and undisturbed water. However, the opposite did not have a negative effect on me. I've seen beaches and oceans that look terrifying, waters dark as night, waves soaring high, shorelines trembling against the wave crest. The sea had lost its sense of relaxation, but it had gained energy and life. The sounds of the waves hitting against the sand or settling through the shoreline sounded violent and fierce, almost like a roaring tiger.

I take notice of this because no matter how I saw the ocean or shoreline, I always found something appealing, some sense of hope or alleviation, even energetic fierceness. Now, I find myself in that very ground I once found so sublime and fond of, yet I don't feel that sense. That calming sense of control was nowhere to be found. I felt nothing. Whenever I stared at the horizon, my view, my reach, my grasp of that very relaxation was obstructed by the dock and Ros. These reminders of what has happened, what was happening, and these agonizing omens of what will happen started to envelop my view, my thoughts, and my sanity. I kept looking forward in the hopes of regaining my beloved horizon, but the more I stared, the more the island consumed the fading horizon.

Ros continued talking with the man whom I recently discovered to be named Ivan. Ros only spoke a couple of sentences aloud, merely to induce fear. I assume Ros is not familiar with the idea of overkill. Ros had taken Ivan to that shed alone to talk. I'm guessing he wanted to talk to Ivan about our so called "liberation" and the recently mentioned trade. It wasn't too hard to decipher. Ros was up to something, he always is or seems to be. The guards later directed us to the dock, where we were lead to a row of separate cells that were made of cement. Each captive, including myself, entered their designated cell. The guards then resumed their watch.

The cell was about three feet in length and width and about seven feet in height. I couldn't see anything, the cell had no openings except for the gate, which limited my view to one direction. I quickly stared to inspect my surroundings and it did not take long to notice some peculiarities.

There was a strange scent to this cell that I couldn't decode. There was definitely a certain burnt smell, almost as if this entire cell had once been set ablaze from the inside. The walls were marked with ash and the floor as well. These inferences and the trace amounts of hay on the floor led me to believe that people had been tortured in these cells or at least in this cell. This dock does not seem like the kind of place for torture, yet Ros is someone who seems to take many drastic measures, so I'm not surprised. In spite of my analytic prowess, I was intensely scared. This act of inference was mainly one of the many subconscious distractions my mind has created in order to retain myself, yet it was not working too well. These distractions are only controlling my possible physical reactions to the amount of panic I am witnessing, but the only way of subduing these reactions is by cramming them inside my skull. I am fully conscious of this, which is only going to make it worse. The fact that I acknowledge it will only complicate my wayward ruminations more than they already are.

Why do I keep acknowledging my vague subconscious attempts at some sort of supposed and uncontrolled aid for my illnesses? Well, I'm simply going through the many stages of panic. My consciousness on these types of subjects or occurrences only worsens my problems. I can't just simply ignore them either. These subjects and problems orbit my axis of thought nonstop. What primarily bothers me about all of this is not these facts or my situation, it's the way I'm supposedly helping myself. All I'm doing is repressing these matters, shoving them into the deepest and darkest crypts of my mind, but eventually they resurface and consume my trail of thought. I subconsciously attempt to help myself again, which only makes the repression and the resurfacings recur.

I hear a door opening and footsteps on this sturdy cement dock, each sounds louder and clearer than the latter. Someone is walking towards the cells. My view of the long of the dock was obstructed by these cement walls, causing me to grow anxious of who was coming. What if I am the one who's going to be traded off? The footsteps got as clear as they could get and in an instance I saw Ros. My initial mistake was making eye contact. He stopped, noticing my fear and my expressions. He got closer and closer to my cell's gates. He lowered his body and grabbed the bars.