A Prison from Within

1.

 

I finally found my voice as the guards shackled my hands and feet. “Where is she?” It’s been so long since i’ve heard my own voice, it’s not as smooth or as deep as it once was. Now it’s more like scraping sandpaper against a rough piece of bark from the lack of water they give me. The keeper looked at me, his face hardening into an animal like mask and spit out at me; “She’s dead, you killed her.”

   The light from above my door never seems to reach all four walls; every day it comes and touches all the walls except one. The light never reaches the door, always stopping right before it can touch. The looming metal door with locks all along the outside, keeping me inside and the others out. My claw marks raked down the middle and my blood pooled at the bottom.  Every day, new scratch marks and fresh blood appear on that door. Every day I beg and plead for the light  to reach that door.  It is six am when I wake up, always six am, I have to be ready to receive  breakfast, otherwise I won’t get any. I’ll wait on my cot, just staring at my grimy hands until food is served.  I can’t remember what my skin looks like, with all the dirt caked onto my flesh and my fingernails all bent and bloody. It is easier than it seems to forget what you look like, when there is no mirror to see yourself with.  Long stringy hair, always covering me, keeping me warm as it collects the dirt from my floor as I walk. Well I can’t say what I do can be considered as walking.  But what  would I know, reality and fantasy clash when you’re alone every day. I wish I knew my age, it is so hard to remember something as easy as that, just a simple number. Age is just a number that correlates to days, weeks, months, and years. And without a calendar you cannot count those days or circle a date for that supposed special day. I always know when the food comes, always. I can hear their feet pounding, echoing off the walls from outside as it resonates through the small crack at the side of the door. There are others though, others that get fed before me, I can hear their screams when the whip cracks and it echoes and echoes. Inside my head the sounds continue, their screams holding me still, turning my limbs into stone. There is nothing I can do for them, nothing, they should know by now not to make a sound. They enjoy the sounds you make, if you make them that is. I don’t make any noises, not anymore. Noises are bad, they bring bad things, bad, bad things. It’s almost my turn, the others have stopped screaming and their foot steps have gotten closer. They’re here.

  Must be still and present, in able to receive food otherwise I won’t be fed. I must stand front and center to make sure they know where I am. Last time I hid in my corner, they didn’t like it too much; they said I was a danger to their safety. How can that be when I can hardly walk?  Loud knocks, always loud knocks when food is served.  Never open your eyes when the food comes they say, you’ll get punished they say. So I obey, that is the only thing I can do. They always bring my food to me, placing it on the floor in front of me and I won’t move, I never move. I want them to leave so I can eat. But they close the door instead, I can hear it, Its hinges protesting against the weight of the door. Just like when I found the little girl in my closet all those years ago. Such a small, delicate child.  She just was a frightened young thing, scared of her own shadow and hiding in my closet, all alone. It wasn’t hard to get her out, she came willingly when I offered food and the light. My closet door creaked and groaned as if not wanting to let her out but I wouldn’t let that happen, she was just a little girl. Too young for the horrors of the night, not yet, I wouldn’t allow such a thing.    I can hear them moving, circling me, their breaths turning more ragged and heavy. They stop circling, one is in front of me the other right behind me, I can feel the heat radiating off of them. It’s disgusting. They’re taunting me, trying to get me to speak, scream, open my eyes, or fight back. I never give them the satisfaction though, I just stand still and wait.  They like to poke and prod at me and call me vulgar things. They touch me with their slimy cold hands, pulling at my hair and my limbs. I can hear those voices coming back, yelling at me, saying it was all my fault. But I didn’t know any better, I begged for them to stop. They just kept yelling, kept saying it was all my fault. I called for help but no one came from the crowd, they all looked on shaking their heads, some even screamed that I should die for my sins. What are my sins I’d ask but they never responded, they only hit me harder.  Never, the never ending pain, only way to escape is to stay in the dark, safety in the darkness how funny. They liked to laugh at me and throw things, always heavy, sharp things. Their faces, not really faces but masks contorted into monstrous forms with evil smiles and blood coating their mouths.  Sick and twisted games where their favorite kind. Playing with my mind and my body making sure I would never be in control. They locked me up in a cold, dark place with rusted metal bars that covered the only small window at the top of the door. They also liked to tie my feet and hands with chains so I couldn’t run or fight back, but there is no fight left in me. All hope is gone.

  These men seem to think they’re in control right now, oh how wrong they are. They didn’t even hear the locks click behind them, stupid men. Those locks never lock  when others are inside, it can become quite dangerous. Their games stop when they get no reaction from me but when they go to leave they are shocked. I can hear it in their voices how confused and frightened they have become. They have pushed me to far this time. It is my turn to play and oh, I do love a good game. I tilt my head forward, covering my face in a curtain of hair letting it fall in there so called food.  You should never open your eyes they said, who am I to disobey?  The sun reaches all walls except one but it’s six am and the light hasn’t even come out yet which means darkness resides in this room. They can’t see me and I can’t see them, but I can hear them trying to to find a way to open the door, to call for help. Help isn’t coming, help never comes.  There is no need to open my eyes to see the way through my room, I know my way with the map in my head.  Do I hear crying? No it can’t be. These weak men, who are supposedly stronger than I, are huddled together at the floor of my door. Sitting in my blood with their backs to my claw marks. How funny it is to see the table s turn. They have started to beg for me to stop, Is it that scary to not see who’s breathing down your neck or have a strangers hands poke, prod and grab at you. Hmm poor, sad men. Don’t they know not to open their eyes or make a sound. I like hearing them whimper for me to stop. So they don’t like it when I scratch their skin with my bent and bloodied nails, but why not? Does it not bring them pleasure? Oh but how much joy would I get from hearing them scream? But what is joyous in hearing them scream? Is it the power I wounder, in making them scream or is it the knowledge that they also, want to scream.  I ask them questions but they don’t answer, nobody ever answers! They shrink back as I scream, but there is no need for that when they have no ears to hear me scream.  Ha what genius! If you take away their ears they cannot  hear you scream and if you take away their tongue’s they cannot scream in return. Oh, but now they want to escape. To bad, it’s breakfast time.