Insomniac Dreaming
-Part 1-
The window shed light in the cold dark room; its iron walls surrounded the cold tiles covering the wooden floor. The walls seemed to enclose themselves around the prisoner, the room getting more and more cramped. The cold steal painted a deep shade of blue, an almost black color. The window’s light shaped itself in the floor revealing the plastic tiles covering the floor, though it proved trivial to think if the window existed there simply to make the prisoners ask questions.
Is just that part tile, is the whole floor tile, the prisoner sighed softly, sitting in a corner. The prisoner assumed the whole floor covered itself with tile, since the floor she placed herself on felt like the tile. The iron walls felt cold to the touch. The prisoner’s hands rested in lead hand handcuffs. Not even handcuffs, sometimes the prisoner would wonder if they drilled holes in a lead block and just used that; they were a square that fit just around the prisoner’s hands. It weighed the prisoner down heavily and many a times at night it became not the most comfortable pillow, it proved difficult to carry, and that made it even worse to eat with it on, or at least when they fed the prisoner. The prisoner sighed into the cold, smug air, in which only god knew the garbage and junk stuffed in the air.
Constantly there lingered the stench of something burning. The smell of fire, always hanging heavily in the air, and the window’s only sight proved to be a long thin tower, painted a horribly bright pink, and had a single silver line falling down from the top. “It’s there simply to baffle you!” the guards would constantly scream if any questions were raised. The prisoner didn’t care. The light coming from the window baffled the prisoner. It’s odd and ill shaped, as though the light almost bent around the edge of the window, not only that, but the light didn’t brighten anything part of the cell. Even when the prisoner sat in the light and looked around, all the prisoner would see is a consuming darkness, nothing but that consuming darkness. The prisoner never sat in the light anyway, the very thought seemed useless.
On one side of the prisoner’s life sentenced room laid a door. It reached a fairly large height, and it almost touched the ceiling of her ten foot tall cell, the prisoner thought the door stretched about eight and a half, maybe nine feet tall. Posted above the mid line of the door, at eye level of the prisoner laid a long thin rectangle, it proved to be something the guards would push aside so they could check up on their visitors, AKA the prisoner.
The guard, of which, the prisoner had unfortunate luck to be stuck with was a young man, a family man. Michael, his name he told the prisoner when he had first been posted on his mark. Michael, still a young man, only twenty three years of age, he had a slight beer belly from the many trips to the bar, his wife retrained herself, none the less she remained slightly bipolar, and whenever he’d come home from work, cold and tired, she’d constantly give him interrogations on not only what he did at work, but why he reeked of urine and alcohol. His wife never stopped and thought that the prisoner who he had the unfortunate job of watching, needed constant trips to the restroom. Usually in spite of Michael the prisoner would come out of the bathroom and throw a hand full of urine on him. Michael was obedient to his orders, and would instantly strike down the prisoner with his nightstick, which was mandatory if the prisoner were to ever act out in violence.
The sent of alcohol was justified since he made few trips to the bar. He drank only to become more lenient with his wife. He sometimes thought if he didn’t drink, and justify his urine scent his wife would be more accepting of the fact, and maybe just possibly not loath his existence as she made it apparent to him. The prisoner never cooperated with him. Though lately, the prisoner had been talking with him, offering him therapeutic assistance as some might call it.
Michael began feeling better about himself these past few days, he didn’t go to the bar quite as often, and he continued dropping some of his weight, and replacing it with muscle. His wife remained not as quick to believe that one quick change of who he his job forced him to guard would suddenly change his entire attitude around. She would constantly scream at him even when he came home, happy and chipper. He remained the only man he knew that felt the female side of an abusive relationship, though he remained forever loyal, and he stayed with her, not out of fear of her, but out of love.
He cared not how often he would to talk to his friends with black eyes, or lie to his friends about him falling down the stairs. He loved his wife, that’s why he married her. He never cared about himself, or what happened to him, he only cared about coming home in one piece so his wife would be happy with him. He would go from job to job often until he found this one. For while he even occupied a museum night guard position, but this job held something different. All he had to do stayed constant, just make sure the door never opened, and nothing comes in or out, unless the warden gave his grant. Sadly he knew this job’s hours were awful and he wouldn’t see his wife that often, but he thought that the time apart would give her the time she needed to cheat on him.
He supported the idea of her cheating on him, the first three times he found her caught in the act, and the other four times she confessed to him during a fight. He didn’t care; his loyalty remained undying and deep as the oceans. He just wanted his wife to be happy, that’s why he took this job. He sighed, sitting, with his back to the door reading the newspaper the asylum kindly provided. The paper had aged fifty nine years, but it didn’t matter to him, he watched the lights flicker on and off, and released another soft sigh reading his paper.
He didn’t know anything about the prisoner he remained to guard except that the cell endured by being made of iron, and had only one window, and if the prisoner ever asked what it consisted of, or why it’s there, he would scream as loud as he could “It’s there simply to baffle you!” He didn’t like yelling, but he did it anyway, it paid him part of his job. He just continued to read. Everyday stayed the exactly the same to him, but today, today felt different, he didn’t know why but he just had a feeling.
In the inmate office of public relations, a strange man with an eye of glass stood, talking to the officer. The officer sat silently behind a desk all day, the desk littered with random papers that he never felt like sorting out, he also wore on his chest a bright and constantly shined badge. His police badge from his police years. The strange man talked the officer in a soft tone, which felt as though his words were made of the very air that he inhaled, and his words seemed to invade his lungs and almost suffocate him. The strange man stood very tall, about six feet standing straight, and he wore an oddly colored tuxedo, it colored itself the most bizarre shade of bright pink. His hair, combed often, looked long and black and combed back and tied in a pony tail behind him, his hair dragged down to about his mid back, and felt greasy to the touch, as though he put too much gel, or mouse in it.
He smiled as he told the officer, “I want to visit someone… an old friend of mine, a collage roomy if you would” he smiled a devious smile. The officer was shining his badge at the time that the question was raised, and he continued to reminisce too caught up in his past. He would do that from time to time, think of his police days and blank out the world lying before him, he nodded and opened the door, and he didn’t care. The trouble he could have gotten into for just opening the door like that proved astronomical, but still, he didn’t care. The strange man tipped his imaginary hat to him as he walked the through the door, “by the way friend, the name is Cray”
As he approached the door of which the prisoner resided behind. Michael sat there reading his old newspaper as Cray approached him. Michael looked up from his paper and shot up to attention standing before Cray, his paper flying from his hands, and the chair nearly tipping over. “Sir! How may I assist you, since you are here, I assume you’re here to see a guest of the asylum?” Cray nodded, “yes someone very special, the door behind you. I need to meet the prisoner who resides in that cell” Michael objected instantly, “I’m sorry sir, but nobody comes in or out of that cell, I’m sorry sir!” he smiled and looked into the eyes of the young guard and smiled and in an instant Michael entire world went black. Michael’s lifeless body fell to the ground with a hard thump.
Cray smiled and rubbed his eyes, as a few drops of blood fell from his eyelids. He looked down at Michael and smiled, “you were quite the character… it usually doesn’t take me that much effort to tear someone down.” He kneeled down before his body and shook his head softly, “I suppose it’s because of all the emotions you kept boiled up inside, you had a lot to hide… well, don’t worry about your wife, she’ll hold an amazing funeral…” he slowly moved his soft almost feminine hands through Michaels silk hair, “she’ll care…” he smiled as he rose to his feet and adjusted his tie as he headed for the door to the cell, in which the prisoner sat quietly.
