Shackles. Rusted metal chain around my neck and hands. My hair has been cut very short and I look pale. My eyes dark and withdrawn. My feet bare and the floor hard. I don’t know what events have led me here. I cannot really remember. I have a vague memory. I was discussing something. I must have said too much. Made someone fearful. Things can’t be changed. It is dark but warm. I can see figures around me. My mother is sat at a desk nearby signing something. She stands, lowers her head and leaves. I am forbidden to speak. I can no longer speak.
My eyes hurt. I close them but my balance gives way and I falter. I look up again and the room is lighter.
More serene. I am sat down. A woman opposite me smiles pityingly. She shows me a card with a number of words on. I speak them out loud. The voice has re-emerged but it does not sound like mine. She places the cards face down on a table infront of her and writes something on a notepad. I ask to see it. She says it isn’t necessary and beckons for me to leaves. I stand with difficulty as my ankles are chained. As soon as I stand I am back in the dimly lit corridor again. I sit on the hard ground and put my bruised arms around my knees. It is useless.
102
The figure inside my head tries to scream but all that emerges is piercing silence.
Everyone seems so lost. Walking down the street, peoples faces seem to reflect a sadness. Attitudes etched deep within. Some look ready to burst into tears. I don’t think it’s a conscious thing. Day by day, the routine continues. Up early every morning to go to a job they hate. Bad tempered because they’ve never had the impetus to change the things they do. Maybe they’ve thought about it but it’s been drummed into them by society that they should make the most of what they have and they believe they are doing the best the can. They elude themselves. They may sit at a desk for hours, just longing for a cigarette break. Or maybe they’re a reformed smoker, nibbling their pen, wondering what they can possibly look forward to to get them through the day. Lunchtime arrives and some may wander aimlessly around the streets, some may charge around checking bank balances, lunging them further into despair. Some may go shopping and console themselves by grabbing the latest fashions in the belief that this will help them be a better person.
Then another afternoon of mundanity, watching the clock ticking until they can be released. Five thirty arrives, maybe six thirty, maybe later and they exit into the early night. A mad rush home ensues or maybe a few drinks in the local, maybe they stay to finish paperwork at their desk because for some reason or other they don’t want to go home. Dinner, maybe a ready meal, maybe nothing at all, they’re dieting. They’re maybe so tired they plonk themselves infront of the tv and watch a load of nonsense someone has told them is unmissable, then they go to bed. Setting the alarm clock for the following morning, the despair allows its head to rise. Five, maybe six days, the exact scenario continues, maybe 103
different words, different lunch but the underlying struggle remains. Sunday, maybe it’s a Tuesday, brings the day off they’ve been looking forward too.
Their day, their time, they’re chance. Some may catch up with their cleaning and washing that they’ve put off all week because they were too tired. Some may go down to the pub and drink until their mind feels somewhere near to peaceful. Some may sleep til noon and spend the day in pyjamas, watching re-runs of old films and catch up on the television they’ve missed.
All too soon, it’s night and the alarm is set and the circle keeps turning. One day, you find you’ve missed your life.
Then it’s too late.
Maybe that’s what the bemused people walking down the street are thinking.
Sadly, I think that’s not true. Sad, because maybe the thought won’t pass thought their mind until it is too late.