AWOL

Prisoner

When we begin to build walls of prejudice, hatred, pride, and self-indulgence around ourselves, we are more surely imprisoned than any prisoner behind concrete walls and iron bars.   ~Mother Angelica

Fifty-six up then down, Fifty-seven, up then down, Fifty-eight ...I was beginning to feel the burn, the aching and soreness were building up, I let that feeling encompass the entirety of my body and remained focused on making myself sorer, I wanted to ache more. I felt the resistance growing as it got harder and harder to keep going, I began pushing myself more and more, helping the ache grow, getting stronger, never weaker. Beads of sweat fell off my body onto the hard grey concrete floor, the soft pat pat they made as they hit the floor was reassuring. It measured my progress, the more sweat, the stronger I was getting: that was good. Every now and then the sweat would slip into my eyes, making them burn for a few seconds: that was good too. 

Seventy up then down, Seventy-one up then down...Being able to exercise, sweat, and feel my muscles stretch then contract without the keen feeling of being watched or the fear of being attacked made me unexpectantly thankful for my damp dark cell. But I couldn't stay here much longer.  

I yearned to pump my arms along my sides with my legs pumping twice as hard, feeling the air whip my hair back, contracting and extending my legs for jumps, climbing up dilapidated walls, and running free and wild. 

I was preparing for something. Waiting for the right moment. I was going to be ready when it was time. I was going to escape.

But until then, I'll prevent myself from getting soft, even in the small confines of my cell.

It also kept me distracted, it kept the quiet and uncertainty from reaching me. Sometimes, when I couldn't build the ache fast enough, my mind would begin to wonder, straying away from my cell to the Outside, thinking about all the possible scenarios and outcomes of what's happened since I've been gone. They must think I've gone AWOL, just vanished out of thin air, turned my backs on them, erasing them from my memory like a pair of old boots that no longer fit, stuffed in a box, simply left behind and forgotten. 

Making my body ache, hearing myself out of breath, huffing with each sit-up made me feel less confined and gave me a sense of accomplishment, it was my sanity. My mama once told me bodies made these things called edophins? endophins? They're made as we exercise, and they make you feel good. I probably had those to thank. If I just focused on my body, my mind wouldn't wander too far out of the realms I created for myself. I wouldn't wonder about the outside, who survived, and who didn't. Up then down, up then down...I'd lost count. 

"Gat!" I was frustrated. I sat up against the wall with my knees pulled up to my chest and hands over my eyes. 

I have no notion of how long I've been imprisoned, there are no windows in my cell and no indication of moon or sun. Have 200 moons passed? 250? 500?! All I know is that it's been far too long. I looked around at what I've become accustomed to calling my cell. Surrounded by four solid concrete walls, a hard mat in one corner, with a piece of stained cloth no bigger than the amount of fabric I would use to dry myself with after a wash strewn across it, no pillow, and just enough space beside the mat to stretch out my long body and do sit-ups and push-ups. The ceiling ran high above, where there was a small sliding panel they opened to lower down my food. Sometimes they kept the panel cracked, to let some light into the cell, like how it was now.

I didn't have to worry about conserving my strength because they feed me twice a cycle. It's the most certainty with food I've had in a long time. Outside, my next meal was never guaranteed, I was fortunate enough if I ate at all most cycles. I am given a first meal and a second meal every cycle. They used to give me a brown tasteless porridge with bread and water for the first meal and rice, bread, meat, and water for the other meal. I used to consider the first meal as a morning meal. 

On the Outside, I would eat porridge, with a bit more flavor, when I woke up. The evening meal was always a little hardier. I had used the meals as a way to count the moons and suns. Porridge meant the sun was out, rice and meat meant the moon was out. But for a while now, my meals have been mostly porridge and bread. I lost track of the moons and suns a long time ago. Makes me wonder whats happening to cause stricter rationing and rarely any meat. 

I looked up wondering when they'd open the panel again. It's been a little bit since my last meal, my next one should be soon. 

_____________________________________________

Author's Note: 

A Cycle= One day

I purposefully don't use the words breakfast  and dinner to contribute to the setting. I'll add these author's notes every now and then for some parts that may be confusing. It'll make more sense as the setting is developed more and more. Keep in mind this is a dystopia. 

Thanks for reading!