Novel Part 3

Perhaps she who enters my prison simply emerges from the walls around me, and then disappears into their grayness when she leaves. It may be that the walls seem only solid to my touch, and that in all actuality they are just formations of smoke, easily penetrable by everyone except me. Perhaps what I conceived to be tangible, and that I falsified every morning, was only a fabrication of my own troubled mind, and my body the semantic, willing collaborator.

I have often allowed myself to consider things not worth considering. For someone with a seemingly endless amount of time and nothing to do, the concept of worth may appear strange. Yet even as I sit still, my head spins, and my thoughts along with it. I would entertain each thought, one by one, jumping from one to the other, until I could no longer distinguish folly from sense. Like skipping stones on a calm shore, grazing the surface of the water with each glance, able to avoid the dreariness beneath, until it finally sinks into the empty depths.

Part of my mind is sure that my prison walls are made of solid stone, and another part is suspicious that they are not. Perhaps I am willing to question anything in order to increase my hatred for this place, and intensify the desire to leave it. Any hint of doubt is like that small skipping stone, merely bouncing off the surface but sending ripples across the whole shore. Someday that tiny stone will become a giant boulder, and instead of glancing off the water, it will go straight to the bottom, and displace the whole shore in the meantime.



It is night. I do not remember passing out, nor would I be able to discern the subtle changes from the waking to the slumberous world. Night has brought an even greater dimness into my prison. The gloom, which crept in the corners of my prison during the day, now invades every part of its construct, until I struggle to see beyond my arm’s length. I can feel the darkness cajole me into further repose, so I began slouching lower and lower against the wall. The tiredness of my body compliments the exhaustion of my mind.

I was about to slip back into the hollow room of my sleep (a transition I lethargically enjoyed), when I heard a cautious sound pass through the gloom. Perhaps it was my foot twitching, as it sometimes does during my sleep. But I gauged it to be farther away, towards the center of my prison, where my empty bowl and cup lay. There might be someone there.

My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. Constantly in its midst, yet still struggling to cope with the darkness. In the meantime, I scrambled up from my seated position, grimacing at the soreness in my lower back. I took a few steps forward, and probably should have called out, but for some reason a peculiar reluctance caught the words in my throat. As I walked closer, I heard a second noise, this time less delicate. It sounded like a foot scraping the dust and dirt along the floor. I had heard my swollen feet drag themselves across my unfortunate abode countless times. A muffled sound, yet distinct to my ears.

In that moment, I knew that there was someone there. I would’ve cried out with joy as I finally looked upon that solemn face – that face which is capable of an understanding, even if but a shred of it, of the nature of this place, and why it surrounds me so. A face that holds features capable of sympathy and acknowledgement.

Yet, I felt a sinister aura that spread from this new presence. My previous drowsiness quickly slipped away, and now, fully aware of the utter stillness and darkness of my prison, I slowly started to panic. I dared not move further. I stared deep into the gloom and saw nothing, but in my chaotic mind I pictured a tall figure wearing long robes with sickly eyes staring back at me. I sensed that she was but a few paces away, but separated as we were by an endless darkness, I did not have the nerve to reach out and grab her.

The dimness, unchanged before my eyes until then, began to move slightly. I blinked, realizing how long I had been gaping at the darkness. A shape, faintly defined, appeared suddenly, but vanished before I could properly discern it from the gloom. My breath stopped short, possibly to keep the air around me still, as its annoying circulation would hinder my vision.

One last delicate noise, as if a farewell call, stole across my prison. I remained motionless for a while longer, but I knew that whatever had arrived was now gone. With this knowledge, my confidence apparently grew. I walked closer to the center of the room, not with hesitant steps as before, but with bold, long strides, as if I had scared off the newcomer and was now proudly examining conquered space. Perhaps I regarded this episode as a modest victory, where I, waking from confused slumber, roused myself and glared back at darkness and death itself, and forced it to slink away. I, so depraved of everything, was finally able to gain something, yet I knew not what this “something” was.