The Prison I
I was born inside the prison. My sister, like my grandparents, like many of my ancestors, died inside, dreaming of what was outside of the boundaries of the prison.
Nobody knows what’s out there. Nobody here is old enough to remember why we were put inside the prison. We just know that we, the ones before us, must have done something terrible to be locked up here. The key, just like our knowledge of what’s outside, lost forever.
We were left to rot but we simply couldn’t. Some of us have cunning and are ingenious. Some others follow instructions very well. Somehow, against all odds we persisted and existed.
Our existence is not dull, we have managed to arrange ourselves and distribute the work, voice our concerns, relate and get some leisure. There’s a well accepted order that very few truly challenge as we don’t like that level of disruption, we prefer the kind that rearranges the furniture of a decayed house rather than repair it. We accept that the latter is not an option so we are content with the former. So, some people invent, some give instructions, some follow and we all carry part of the weight whilst hating that weight more less the same. We don’t like it when someone refuses to pay for their existence here, we are very democratic.
A lot of prisoners live in concentrated tower block areas. At night I walk by the buildings and peer through the decorated cell windows and observe the lights and the prisoners who busy themselves with the latest inventions and distractions, and occasionally with each other. All in the name of numbing the sadness of being imprisoned; the torture of being unworthy of freedom and of the company of free beings.
Despite the flurry of distractions, we have constant reminders of our penance. Shame, guilt, fear and all sorts of elements causing dispair. Some of us have been declared resistant to the distractions, because despite trying really hard to use them to avoid noticing the prison boundaries, we can’t do that. We sometimes even get lost on the glaring walls and we rage and punch. Nobody likes to witness that so we are quickly put away to avoid scaring the young ones who are just starting their training in using our inventions to ignore the prison.
I know I am in danger of being one of those “distraction resistance” people. I had one unfortunate encounter with a man who, whilst we used the distractions in a pertinent manner, made a strange move and shoved my face on the prison wall. I was knocked out unconscious but the bruises left on my body prevented me from forgetting such regretful event. For that reason, I started fixating on the prison walls and when everyone was busy distracting themselves I started observing them, just with the corner of my eyes, nothing obvious. I knew it was a dangerous game, all my distraction-training kicked in and begged me not to look, reminded me the luck of those who look for too long. I couldn’t help it. Something in those bruises, on the blood that filled my mouth felt different. It felt new and exciting.
