I hop out of my cot, needing to pee. As I pee, I turn and stare out the window, see only chalky blackness through the bars. I think of all the times I’ve stared out this window, and a tear drips down my face, into the bowl. I’m gonna miss that window, those bars; my sole companion during my dark times. It was with me when I flew to Rio and danced with all of those girls, also when I traveled to Greece and sat sipping a beer, watching the yachts sail past, whiteness all around me. It was with me when I hitched a ride to Florida, and when I drove to Nevada. It was also there when I opened my wrists using a filed pen lid, and it was certainly there to watch over me when I cried endless tears.
I finished pissing and, tucking myself in, I look to the cold floor and wonder where all the tears I’ve spilled have gone. I picture an underground river flowing with all the tears, blood and semen of all the men who have called this hell home, and I picture myself dropping down into it and floating away.
It is then I laugh; short and breathy. Why think such a thought? I am no longer bound by these walls; come morning I am free, I have no need for a dirty river. That is a thought of a doomed man, not of a free one.
And so I jump back into my cot, thoughts of the morning floating through my head and miraculously I fall back to sleep.
Next time I wake, the block is asleep, it seems only I am awake at such an ungodly hour. But what hour is this? The room is still as thickly black as before, it feels like time has hardly shifted. I sit up, put my chiseled feet to the rock floor and saunter to the end of my world.
I clutch the thick bars and stare up at the clock, its round, watchful face winking at me. One it tells me; five hours till rise and shine, knuckleheads. It feels like it should be later, but that’s the curse of time, and I shuffle on back to my cot to sleep out the rest of the night.
But sleep does not come easy now. My mouth is dry, my stomach aching, and I just wish it was morning so bad my head hurts. I go over and rinse my mouth, take a moment to sigh and at my cot I sit, not lay, head in my calloused hands.
Why does it seem that this night of all nights should be the longest? Why doesn’t sleep just take me and drop me down once morning shows herself, in all her beauty? It will kill me to have to sit here in the gloom and wait out the night, and surely not even the devil himself can be so cruel.
I have spent too long in this accursed place, and maybe, I think with a gut-curling thought, it will not give me up so easily. Maybe the longer you stay, the more you belong to it, the more it owns you, the more flesh and blood and tears it takes.
I shiver. I hear a dog bark from somewhere that’s not here. Sleep is what I need, sleep and a cold glass of beer and a woman lying unconscious on the…
I slap myself; a hearty, stinging slap. As I blink cold tears away, I know it’s this place that’s filling my head with these evil thoughts; it’s not me, it can’t be me, it’s…
“Always been you,” says a voice, deep and dark.
I gasp and snap my head towards the end of my world. “Who’s there?”
A burp, a sigh. And then that sooty voice, bouncing off the hard cracked walls: “Nobody. A friend. An enemy. Whatever.”
The voice feels familiar, but I can’t grasp it. I stand, step one, two, three paces and stop. I can smell the blood-smell of the metal before me. “How’d you get in here?”
The man, sitting cross-legged in front of me, is shrouded in shadows; he smells of damp towels and old urinal cakes. He takes a swipe from his paper bag. “The question is, how did you?”
I open my mouth to answer, but instead I ask, “What did you mean by ‘it’s always been you’?”
The old man (how do I know it’s an old man if I can’t see his face?) grinds gravel, but then I realize he’s laughing. “You blame this place for your evil thoughts, but this place blames you.”
“I don’t understand.”
The stranger scratches himself and swishes around the paper bag, a bag that smells suspiciously like wine — and not the good kind. He drinks more of the paper bag. “No, I don’t suppose you do,” he says.
“Give me some of your paper bag.”
“Get your own,” he answers.
“I will, tomorrow, when I leave, but right now, I need some of yours.”
The old man howls with laughter. He remains sitting on the other side of freedom, a dark blob.
“Guards!” I yell. “Hey, there’s a bum here, and he won’t give me any of his paper…”
And I awake. Immediately look beyond the end of my cot, but there’s no old man behind the bars.
A dream, I think, and smile, but not because of the dream, but because it means I was asleep. But then the fact that I’m thinking this means I’m awake, and because it’s still dark, the smile washes away.
“Damn it,” I mumble, wanting just to wake when the sun does, but it seems I’m destined to wake every five minutes.
It certainly was a strange dream. I sniff the air. I smell old, sweat-stained towels and a smell all too similar to the time I peed my cot.
It’s the smell of the old man, but he’s not there, just an empty space.
I lie back, close my eyes and think about the old man’s voice. So familiar; not unlike my father’s deep growl. His voice used to scare me when I was young — he used to scare me. He opened his veins when I was eleven and what splashed out looked more like red wine than blood. He was barely forty when he died, but to my young eyes, he seemed ancient. Apparently I look a lot like my father — same narrow eyes, full lips and dark wavy hair — but I don’t see the resemblance.
I lie with my hands over my heart, eyes shut to the darkness, and try and sleep, but sleep is like water flowing down a stream — there, but not there. I’m unable to grasp it and flinging my eyes open I heave a heavy sigh and sit up.
This is the ultimate punishment. Somehow the warden has struck a deal with the devil and has made the night twice as long as usual. The beast! I just want the morning to caress the night, even a hint would be a blessing, but no, the night is a leaden thing, unmoving, stubborn, and doesn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon.
I fear looking at the clock, for what terrors it has to show me, so, staying on my cot, I turn and look at the wall, the wall that has been a constant friend throughout my stay. I reach out and finger the multitude of grooves, nicks, wedges — all so familiar, their mystery help keeping me sane. What was the reason behind this groove? Who chiseled this nick? Was the previous occupant crying, laughing, or dying when he carved this wedge? Long days and even longer nights I’ve laid here dreaming of the past, imagining the men who have come before me: their history, their deeds, their personality. I’ve had conversations with these make believe characters; sometimes it seems they’re more real than any of the men locked in here with me. More real than anyone I used to know on the outside. I will be sad to see them go, but alas, time has come to say goodbye (if time hasn’t decided to stand still).
I turn from the wall and wonder again if I should gaze out at the circle of life and see if it means me harm or kindness.
Or is that too cruel a game?
Yes, I decide, and again close my eyes and attempt to fade into sleep. Because surely, if I can achieve that, the next time I wake, it shall be morning and I shall be free at last.
Sleep comes, dreams come. I dream of an unborn baby, curled inside its mother, only the womb consists of thick heavy bars and instead of an umbilical cord, there’s a long needle which feeds blood and a milky substance and clear, salty water. The baby is sleeping, smiling, sucking its thumb and as I watch, the baby grows. It grows into a newborn, then a toddler, but it doesn’t stop there. I scream at the toddler to wake up, to break the bars down and leave the womb — it’s getting much too big for the womb — but it doesn’t heed my calls. It continues to grow, into a five-year-old, then ten, and I can see the womb stretching, bloating, and I scream, I cry, and yet the kid seems oblivious to the situation. It continues to suck its thumb and receive the blood and milk concoction. It grows more; teenager, young adult. The bars split. Then I hear the snapping of flesh and muscle, and when it reaches its thirties, it opens its eyes, turns, stares at me, smiles, and then there’s a wild explosion of guts and tissue and blood. I wake, screaming, sweating, heart thumping at a rapid rate. I cease screaming when I realise it was a dream, but my scream continues to echo long after I have stopped.