Mr. Skull

Installment 7: State of Mind

 It's funny how changing the physical state of water can change its pretext. Pearl woke up from a trance, her eyes flickered quickly between the bleakness of the room and the flurries outside her window. In contrast to the pounding headache that shook her skull, a lazy smile plastered her face, tugging her pale lips and gently scrunching up her cheeks against her eyes. Something about snow allured her - not just the frosting like snow banks that blanketed the ground - but also how it would always be contradicting what she felt. Snow is supposed to be calming, right? she thought, then why do I feel like shit? A concoction of hungover and altitude sickness pumped through her feeble body- she felt as if she was squeezed inside a hollow ball and was shook violently until she hit her head so hard that it wracked her brain. The constant sound of clanging metal hinges did little to help with the panging in her head.

"And I thought I was getting better," she mumbled inwardly while prying herself from the cold concrete floor, wincing as her bruises made contact with the chalky surface of the ground. She glanced at her hands, rubbing them tenderly as to not hurt herself even more. Her bruises had worsened since the last time she checked, the purple hues of the fresh bruises and greenish-black of old ones gradually spreading like webs; as if they were slowly but surely consuming her entire body. She heaved in exasperation, holding herself solemnly as she continued to examine her body intently - half expecting to find yet another injury - half wishing she could get better. As she fumbled with the underside of her breast, a stone-faced guard approached her and set down a tray containing oatmeal and a small amount of beef jerky. On that rare occasion, the meal was also paired with a tall bottle of clear water that sparkled from the light that came through the slits in the walls. Although most of the inmates were used to drinking the clouded water from the toilets, some guards were generous enough to buy them a bottle of water. Although she was unsure if it was out of pity or mockery, she took the sentiment, either way, draining the bottle within seconds.

There were visitors today, as the jail cells were open for public viewing, where a steady stream of animal rights enthusiasts would visit. They would shove their hands between the narrow bars of the cell in an attempt to palliate her sorrows. Avidly praying, protesting, and arguing for her freedom to no avail. Some would come and snake their arms through the bars, petting Pearl gently with hands that reeked of perfume and hand sanitizer, ruffling her hair until it knotted, or poking at her bruises until she cried.

"You poor thing... it will get better. Don't worry." Several would say, as their large figures loomed over her, their eyes swollen from the fat on their milky faces. "Awh, it's ok. We can do something about it. We can change you to make you better."

Sometimes, Pearl was tempted to throw a fit. Despite the empathetic gaze that these visitors showed, she could tell that they could not - and would never - understand what it truly felt to be bruised and battered the way she was. Despite the gaze, their eyes still gleamed with a hint of avarice that overshadowed their superficial dialogue that was meant to be encouraging, because Pearl had long seen past it.

A young girl about Pearl's size sauntered towards the bars but kept herself a pace away from Pearl, as if she was scared or repulsed by her. The young girl squatted down so that they were the same height, and cocked her head out of confused dismay. She tugged at her mother's dress, whispering softly but deliberately in order for Pearl to hear her as well.

"Why can't they just stop having bruises? Then they wouldn't be so weird, mama."

Pearl shook her head and threw herself at the bars, ignoring the pain that pulsated through her entire body as if it was shrouded by her anguish. "If I knew how to stop," she said coarsely, forgetting how to speak, "then I wouldn't be in this cell with people like you looking at me like I'm some form of entertainment"
"Do you really think I want to be like this?" she emphasized by gesturing vaguely around the damp cell, the soft sound of water trickling down the walls breaking the prolonged silence that stretched between the three.

"Do you know what it's saying?" the girl asked softly cowering behind her mother as they approached Pearl's cell.
"No," her mother said "they don't make sense sugar. We don't speak the same language as them." she said dismissively, guiding her child away from Pearl. As they were strides away, the woman leered over her shoulder in aggravation. Her eyes were heated with aversion.

"Perhaps it'll get better," said an onlooking passerby.
"No, I won't."
"Perhaps the bruising will just go away. That's what I heard from the doctors on the news."
"No, it won't." Pearl wasn't sure why she was responding. Knowing fully that no one would understand her, she still grasped onto what little hope she had, loathing for someone to know how she truly felt. The cell walls stretched beyond her sight yet she felt so claustrophobic with the eyes that peered forlornly at her.

She never knew that she would die in this cell not out of hunger or the unhygienic conditions.

She would die out of loneliness.