Categories > Original > Sci-Fi
Born alone, I sit in my cell.
A dark, small room. That's now my life, a little room, with the springs of a mattress on one side, and a small hole in the ground in the opposite corner, used as my toilet. There's no light, not even a small slit. The only time I see light is when the open the food slot, each time it's exactly three seconds, it must be a timer of some sort. I get tow meals a day, a small lump of ground up meat of some sort, an old, moldy slice of bread, and an orange. I get ten large plastic water bottles of water a day. I get ten, I'm told, because even though I am a prisoner, there's no use in me dying or suffering more than I have to.
Despite the absence of light, my eyes have slightly grown accustomed to the darkness. I can make out the vague shape of my mattress, and I can now walk freely without stepping in a hole of my own crap and piss. When I'm not sleeping, eating, staring, or crapping, I fill my time by exercising. I have to make sure I don't over do it, with the absence of food and all. Usually my daily workout consists of ten pushups and 20 sit ups before each meal. It's not a lot, but it allows me to maintain some routine. I have the meal schedule pretty much down, I can usually guess when my food is coming. I recently took up talking to myself, and soon after started answering myself, a sure sign of crazy. But what do I care? What else am I going to do. So far I have thought up two different personalities I talk to. Dakota is the bad ass, the guy who I talk to when I'm weak, he pushes me forward. The other is Jakob, I decided that if I ever write again I will spell it with the K, makes it different, special. Jakob is the sensitive side of me, the one who harbors love and all its glories. I talk to him mostly when I'm just lonely, afraid of the dark, feeling close to death. He comforts me.
I haven't had a shirt in, how long? Well, at least since I've been here. When I run my hand across my chest and back I feel the cuts and scraps from the wires of the mattress. I use to roll around in my sleep, but now I wake up exactly how I go to sleep. Sometimes I sleep on the floor, but it's so cold. Sometimes, when I sit on the mattress and set my hands on it, I can feel the squishiness of my blood from the previous sleep.
My back used to ache. When I first came here I would scream and yell for help, banging the door, begging for someone to open it, anyone. Crying for help. But, then again, I also used to roll in my sleep. After a while of realizing where I was, the screaming stopped, the fighting stopped. I gave up. It's difficult at first, giving up. You tell yourself to hold on, just to stay together that small bit, to keep going. Your heart tells your mind that someone will come. Some person will break down this metal door and free you from yourself, from your torment. But no one comes. There are no heroes, there are no explosions, there are no escapes. There are no people there for you, period. In the end, it's just you. Only you, and whoever you have made up to talk to.
Every now and then, a sudden burst of hope explodes within me. Every now and then, I feel like something will happen. There is a hero for me, someone will destroy this place, this room, this door, these walls. Someone will come for me, there has to be someone for me. I can't be alone forever, can I? But then, I go to sleep on my wires, or the slot opens up for that exact three seconds, and I realize, no, there's no one for me, and there never will be. I am destined to stay here forever, living solitude, bleeding in my sleep, pissing in a hole in the ground.
I remember her. It was hard at first to think about it, but now I just simply don't care. I loved her so much, more than anything. I had loved before, not many times, but I had loved before. She was amazing in every way, every move she made caused my mind to explode with joy. I thought I was the luckiest person who had ever lived. I thought, finally, I can share with someone my love, finally, I can fully extend my feelings, no longer bottling in what I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I loved her, not the love of a family member, not the love of God, but so much more. I loved her more than I could stand, it hurt to love her, a good pain, a deep, heart touching pain, like breathing in to see if you are still alive, that's what her love was to me.
She put me in this cell. I don't know why, I'm not even quite certain how, but she put me here, in my fortress of solitude. She left me here with Dakota, and Jakob, and my declining, barely hanging on life. But I feel no hate towards her. I love her more than anything and even this small, insignificant, stinky, bloody, cold cell which I now call home cannot change the fact that I will love her until the day that my muscles cease moving and breath stops flying. I hold no grudge, I hold love. Only love, which is why the pain is so deep.
A dark, small room. That's now my life, a little room, with the springs of a mattress on one side, and a small hole in the ground in the opposite corner, used as my toilet. There's no light, not even a small slit. The only time I see light is when the open the food slot, each time it's exactly three seconds, it must be a timer of some sort. I get tow meals a day, a small lump of ground up meat of some sort, an old, moldy slice of bread, and an orange. I get ten large plastic water bottles of water a day. I get ten, I'm told, because even though I am a prisoner, there's no use in me dying or suffering more than I have to.
Despite the absence of light, my eyes have slightly grown accustomed to the darkness. I can make out the vague shape of my mattress, and I can now walk freely without stepping in a hole of my own crap and piss. When I'm not sleeping, eating, staring, or crapping, I fill my time by exercising. I have to make sure I don't over do it, with the absence of food and all. Usually my daily workout consists of ten pushups and 20 sit ups before each meal. It's not a lot, but it allows me to maintain some routine. I have the meal schedule pretty much down, I can usually guess when my food is coming. I recently took up talking to myself, and soon after started answering myself, a sure sign of crazy. But what do I care? What else am I going to do. So far I have thought up two different personalities I talk to. Dakota is the bad ass, the guy who I talk to when I'm weak, he pushes me forward. The other is Jakob, I decided that if I ever write again I will spell it with the K, makes it different, special. Jakob is the sensitive side of me, the one who harbors love and all its glories. I talk to him mostly when I'm just lonely, afraid of the dark, feeling close to death. He comforts me.
I haven't had a shirt in, how long? Well, at least since I've been here. When I run my hand across my chest and back I feel the cuts and scraps from the wires of the mattress. I use to roll around in my sleep, but now I wake up exactly how I go to sleep. Sometimes I sleep on the floor, but it's so cold. Sometimes, when I sit on the mattress and set my hands on it, I can feel the squishiness of my blood from the previous sleep.
My back used to ache. When I first came here I would scream and yell for help, banging the door, begging for someone to open it, anyone. Crying for help. But, then again, I also used to roll in my sleep. After a while of realizing where I was, the screaming stopped, the fighting stopped. I gave up. It's difficult at first, giving up. You tell yourself to hold on, just to stay together that small bit, to keep going. Your heart tells your mind that someone will come. Some person will break down this metal door and free you from yourself, from your torment. But no one comes. There are no heroes, there are no explosions, there are no escapes. There are no people there for you, period. In the end, it's just you. Only you, and whoever you have made up to talk to.
Every now and then, a sudden burst of hope explodes within me. Every now and then, I feel like something will happen. There is a hero for me, someone will destroy this place, this room, this door, these walls. Someone will come for me, there has to be someone for me. I can't be alone forever, can I? But then, I go to sleep on my wires, or the slot opens up for that exact three seconds, and I realize, no, there's no one for me, and there never will be. I am destined to stay here forever, living solitude, bleeding in my sleep, pissing in a hole in the ground.
I remember her. It was hard at first to think about it, but now I just simply don't care. I loved her so much, more than anything. I had loved before, not many times, but I had loved before. She was amazing in every way, every move she made caused my mind to explode with joy. I thought I was the luckiest person who had ever lived. I thought, finally, I can share with someone my love, finally, I can fully extend my feelings, no longer bottling in what I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I loved her, not the love of a family member, not the love of God, but so much more. I loved her more than I could stand, it hurt to love her, a good pain, a deep, heart touching pain, like breathing in to see if you are still alive, that's what her love was to me.
She put me in this cell. I don't know why, I'm not even quite certain how, but she put me here, in my fortress of solitude. She left me here with Dakota, and Jakob, and my declining, barely hanging on life. But I feel no hate towards her. I love her more than anything and even this small, insignificant, stinky, bloody, cold cell which I now call home cannot change the fact that I will love her until the day that my muscles cease moving and breath stops flying. I hold no grudge, I hold love. Only love, which is why the pain is so deep.
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