Imprisoned

Rough hands shoved the Man from behind and his crippled body slumped against the dirt floor.

“Lock ‘im up,” grunted the shadow of broad-shouldered figure.

The Man refused to surrender to his quivering lip and gathered himself up, searching for his captor’s gaze. “This isn’t right.” His voice resonated against the stone walls of the prison, sounding weaker than he had anticipated.

Silence greeted his plea. He heard the clank of the door shutting and the echo of keys jangling as the lock clicked. Darkness swelled around him as he stood, trembling. His mangled arm still seeped; the stench was unbearable. Lone hand grasping the stump, the Man attempted to feel along the wall. Mildew lined the crevices as he groped and finally leaned against it with a deep groan. The taste of rust flooded his mouth and he spat.

So this is where McGrath went, he thought in a stupor.

It had happened about a fortnight ago—fellow factory worker Bradan McGrath had vanished. His wife had come pounding at the doors, crying out in her strong Gaelic accent while two men dragged her away. She had clung to the doorway with resolved desperation. He had witnessed the entire scene, but he had never known McGrath very well because it was much too difficult to hold a conversation over the noise of the machinery and one needed every ounce of concentration to operate it. He had been there, though, when the sound of an agonizing bellow caused all the workers to look up. The great mechanism appeared to have snagged a loose thread on the Irish immigrant’s trousers and he was fighting to prevent it from dragging him any further. Everyone’s face paled when they heard, with horror, the tell-tale crunch and McGrath shrieked in panic, his green eyes begging for mercy and strong arms grasping for something upon which to hold on.

By the time someone had managed to shut down the machine the man had passed out. This was one of the only times the Owner ambled down the iron banister from his enclosed office, berating all of them for carelessness and ordering a petrified middle-aged woman to clean up the mess. Nobody had known what had happened to McGrath following the incident; all that remained of the man had been a good quarter of his leg.

The Man had had no choice but to push the event to the back of his mind and ensure even more caution over his own work, but this morning the lack of sleep that accompanied working eighteen hour long shifts finally caused his attention to lapse during a critical moment. Factory workers had no rights! His wrist had already been crushed when a fellow worker pulled him away. Before he even had time to stare with glassy eyes at his gushing arm he was being tugged out the back door where they tossed the refuse.

Nobody had even bothered to turn off the machine.

And now he was here in this dank cell, wondering over his own fate.

He hated to imagine Molly having to suffer in the same manner Bradan McGrath’s wife had. Losing his family would be worse than missing a limb and for a moment he tried to clutch his aching heart, recalling the present situation.

They have to return with bandages and water. They can’t abandon me. With great effort, he tore a fragment of his shirt and knotted it around the stump with his teeth. It was already saturated in blood and the sensation of the rough cloth upon his flesh caused a feeble cry to tumble from his dry mouth. Energy was draining from him and each second seemed more precious as he slowly drew his legs to the ground, resting his back on the cold wall.

Tomorrow was Claire’s birthday; she would be six years old. He and Molly had planned on using a quarter of their month’s wages to purchase the doll she has been eyeing in Wimble’s window for several months now. She was his only child—the others had not lived past the age of two; disease spread quickly and vehemently through the crowded city buildings.

What will they do without me?

The Man’s thoughts grew fuzzier. The lack of air circulation was stifling and his arm throbbed. A flitting image passed through his mind—Molly’s worn, but joyous smile the day she had held her newborn daughter in her arms for the first time. Even when she had grown so tired from constant labour, she was still the most beautiful woman he knew…

~

The broad-shouldered figure stood by another smaller shadow as it fumbled with the keys.

“Give ‘em to me!” the large man demanded. “Yer wasting my time.” He slammed the key into the lock and turned it, meanwhile fixing his bowler hat firmly upon his balding head. He stared at the sight that greeted him. A putrid smell overwhelmed both men.

A third man dressed in a blue uniform budged through the doorway with a saddened expression. From his pocket he removed a pair of handcuffs as his partner appeared from behind. The Owner looked around with a begrudging countenance.

The imprisoned Man lay on the floor. He wore soiled overalls that had once been blue but had long faded to light grey. His hand grasped his heart and, as the second officer rushed to help him, the Man reduced to a pool of grateful tears. His face was lined and stained with blood, but he was still quite young.

“He needs a doctor. Immediately.”

The officer stared at the Man, saying, “You are very lucky. Your wife went straight to the station."

“What happened to McGrath?” His voice sounded hollow.

At this question both officers appeared sorrowful.

“Your wife and daughter are waiting for you. Come.”