Boxes

Boxes



Aero(c)2009







Today was the day.



I mused dimly, looking at the man before me. He was young; he seemed to be only nineteen. I guessed this because he had a young face, with little wrinkles and few hairs on his chin. I subconsciously rubbed my chin, thinking a bit on my own age. I already had some gray hairs in my short cut black hair. To justify myself, I did not believe was much older than the man before me at age thirty-two. I had stopped growing taller a while ago, however, and he grew half a centimeter every day. I looked over him, jealous at his youth.



His shaggy brown hair draped over his head, down his shoulders, shielding my gaze from his sight. His hair had once been shiny, slick with oil brought from Miatna's main street, which was always bustling with rich people who had the money to shop. Over the weeks, it lost its sheen, and its length increased noticeably. I knew that those cold green eyes, which were common among Miatnians, were looking hard at the graying floors. Those emeralds were once wide with horror and shock, while being thrown into the box.



Or at least, that is what I think he called it. Boxes. I chuckled at that. He could be sorted into the type of people that did not deserve to be in any type of boxes. He told me, after a week when he gained the will to speak to any person, that he came from a wealthy family. He was the heir to his father's business (which name escapes me) and happened to murder a person willfully. He spoke in riddles, his body shaking, probably reliving what had happened. Poor boy. He was seized because of something so minor. The box was severe punishment for such a trivial crime. I did know how much the Court Judge loved to seize rich men more than any other "less important" people. I shook my head.



The box was made of iron. He was beating against the cool metal on the second day. He was in a frenzy, movements tiring his body. After a few hours, which was longer than I had originally expected, he settled down. I didn't attempt to help in escape; I was too caught up in the joy of a new roommate, sarcastically speaking. He was scarred for life, to be thrown into the horrible box, confined for The Goddess knew how long. I secretly hoped he prayed to Her every night, that he would be let out. I gave this up years ago, which was a story for another day.



He lost his muscle mass too, I observed. He seemed frail now, barely eating what was rudely shoved through the metal walls. It looked like sludge, what they gave us, and I ate it because somehow I acquired a taste for it, though I would never choose it over a nice restaurant visit. He would always push it away, my greedy fingers taking it happily, always looking at him once with pity. That's what he needed, some sympathy. No one could nor would give him any of this here.



He was merely broken now. He had spent not even a quarter of the time I did in confinement, so I knew. I was once like him, eons ago. He shifted, so that I could see his distant face. The bags under his eyes grew heavier with every sleepless night. He would only have a nightmare when he did sleep, most likely they were about being in a small box, only to wake up in the box he was so afraid about. I could feel he was getting claustrophobic.



I was too, honestly. Claustrophobic, that is. I was only so used to this area now. I was afraid of sleep, just like him. I was young, just like him, when they dropped me in the boxes. Machines would take you by the neck, and drag you across the floor to those dreaded walls. You would fight it, almost to suffocation, but it would succeed anyway, tearing your already cracked pride. And this place could do it to you. It tore my pride as mine, as well as many others. There would be no other reason as to why I was so........insane, for lack of better words.My mother did teach me that "all men have were their pride". I wanted to kill something just thinking of that despicable woman.



I gave up on surveillance and began to pick at the dingy floor, which was a habit. Messing with the guard beyond the metal walls was a hobby I only used when in a particularly bad day. Considering I was in a good mood, I wanted to keep it like this only until later. I felt it this morning. The sense I developed on the battlefield at a young age. I knew something was going to happen. The young man was surprisingly quiet this afternoon (or evening was it), which was unusual. He would usually scream. Horrible screams, I added as an afterthought. It was like a siren to me, and the guards that surrounded the box would not attempt to make him close his mouth.



Those fits would never end until he became hoarse, which triggered his whispers and silent sobs. I could not help but feel a little sad for him. Such a successful life down the drain. I laughed at that the first time I heard it, but as the time went by, I understood him all the more. I wondered if he would sometimes feel sad for me too. No. No one ever feels sad for me.



His fits came later, which immediately took me from my other games, including "count the cracks" or "what does that crack look like", where I would always get a new answer. The young man gave belted screams for curses.



"Why me!?" He always started his sentences off this way. All of the other prisoners said the same thing. Even I, once upon a time. I used to say it every day, wishing I was on a voyage or some other outside activity. He had other phrases too, which should not be repeated by another. I covered my ears, looking at him. He was in sorrow. Poor boy, poor boy.



That was the day it happened.



It always happened, every so often, meaning every other week. They would all do it different, and yet it was all the same. I never viewed suicide as a way out. Apparently the others did. My roommate before him died of suffocation, which was filed an accident, but I knew it wasn't. This young man was merely driven insane.



Screams, screams, screams echoed my mind, as I reminisce his last few days. He gave blood-boiling shouts, shaking the floor beneath my feet. I didn't try to stop him, I never dared. I knew I would've ended up without a limb, being carted out by the same guard that feeds me. He just continued for I didn't know how long. I shook my head, eyeing the wall next to him.



He then collapsed, to my surprise, and began to weep. His asthma was kicking in, as he wheezed viciously. I haven't cried in years, but at that time, I wish I did. He just cried. And continued, even as he bashed his pretty young head in the wall, each smash harder than the last. Blood, which I was used to seeing now, splattered on the bluish walls. Smash, smash, until his skull was dented, until his skull cracked, and his movements were erratic. I felt my heart skip a beat, and I wanted to rush his side, but the shackles on my feet seemed heavier than usual.



They wheeled him out on a white stretcher, red staining the pure color. His face was then incoherent, where it had once been young, jubilant, and full of life. He was on his way to The Goddess above, for her to welcome him in open arms, her soft yet powerful voice saying, "Welcome home". I wanted badly to follow him, but suicide was not an option.



No one could ever understand the pain of this. I watched as all the time in the world passed, and I would watch as prisoner by prisoner would enter this damned box and stain the wall with the red of their veins, and be taken out to the bone-yard. Some would be eyeless, some brainless, and some missing limbs. But I would forever be a recluse to these walls, yearning to see my Goddess' face, to hear those beautiful words ringing in the air, to see those clouds of Heaven. I wanted it all. And every prisoner wouldn't care. Selfish they were. No one cared for an old man. No one cared for anyone else but themselves.



And here was I, watching them have the privilege of being mortal, where I would live forever, never to age again.