The Life Sentence

Have you noticed that many materials when dehydrated crumble? Water, a formless fluid, is what holds together the structure of most anything. Concrete is no exception. As I gaze out from iron bars and stare at the concrete wall before me, I ponder just how many years the wall has left of its own life sentence. When will the Sun bring this wall down- as it will bring us all down- by mercilessly leeching the water out from it. I part with the bars and retreat about three and a half steps to drink water. I take another two steps to lay in my bed and stare up at the concrete ceiling of my cell. The thought haunts me once more as I realize this time the remains of dehydrated concrete would suffocate me as the dust sprinkles over me like powdered sugar over a jelly donut.

Today is the 7,955th day of my life sentence. I do not recall my trial, I do not recall my crime, I do not recall an outside world. The adjoining cells have walls thick only in concept, for I can still hear the agony of those beside me. They shout for Love and Passion and Normalcy, all guards I’ve never seen in my time at the prison. The guards only arrive at my cell once a day to provide food. They don’t talk much, not that I’d welcome the opportunity if it came. They’ll occasionally restock the basic necessities: soap, toothpaste, and cigarettes. I’ll only ever run out of the last.

The four walls of my cell contain all I need to survive and then some. Bed, sink, toilet, shower, and two stacked shelves. The bottom shelf contained an extra set of clothes I’d ordered years prior. The dust enveloped them like a thick wool blanket. The top shelf holds my most valuable personal belongings. When I turned seven I received an offer in writing that entitled me to a wealth of entertainment services; the result of my graduation from reading and writing school. I was allowed any amount of books I pleased. I selected two. One pre-filled, and another empty. The guard had a puzzled look on his face when my books were delivered, as though I’d ever need more. In the coming years I’d only ever request more of the empty books. I never grew tired of reading the same book I’d ordered when I was nine. The thought of anything else overwhelmed and yet bored me.

None of the cells had locks on them. We were allowed to venture the prison as we pleased. I’d only ever taken this opportunity twice. On a curious evening while most everyone slept, I crept out of my cell and wandered. Most prisoners came and went, some to never appear again. I never cared for befriending them, I cared even less knowing they’d ultimately leave. Investigating the contents of the cells that were always beside me brought me more pleasure than the friendship of any of my peers ever could. Every cell had shelves piled with clothing and books and objects I’d never possessed. I recognized the looks of them from the catalog I’d ordered my books from. Most had phones and even personal computer devices. I continued walking down the hall when I reached a staircase and decided my curiosity had been satiated enough, and perhaps the following day I’d explore further- I didn’t. I wouldn’t take up the opportunity to go down that staircase for another two weeks. I spent those two weeks sleeping to no end. Grasping the door to my cell, pulling it open, placing one foot in front of the other for pace after pace after pace, taking in visual stimuli I’d never seen before, bracing for the possibility of interacting with my peers, and once again returning to my cell and grasping the door to push it shut had drained my body of any energy it once possessed.

Once those two weeks had passed, I woke one morning determined to stumble down the staircase. As I approached it, a low murmur grew to a roar. A myriad of voices amalgamated together and my heart raced. I considered turning back but was already halfway down the stairs. The source of this petrifying noise was an area of the prison I was not privy to. There were at least four tables, six chairs each. Almost every seat held a new person who shared in laughter and smiles with the next. My stomach felt as though I was ready to purge and my body grew hot and trembling. I needed to leave. As I turned before they noticed me, I caught a glimpse at the prison door or rather lack thereof. There was an otherworldly brightness flooding in from the gap on the wall, a blinding brightness. My nervousness grew to horror and for the first time in my life I ran, feeling the eyes of those behind me sear into my back.

I slept for about a month before picking up one of my two books after that day. Even after an entire month I still felt exhausted. For the following month I’d only read about a sentence or two a day, sometimes a paragraph if it was a good day. Usually, after years of repeated reading, the recognizable words, the known twists and turns, the lack of surprise filled me with warmth and comfort. These days I couldn’t bring myself to care, though. My attempts at reading were all I knew to do to heal my exhaustion, and even that didn’t work. I had an ache I could not pinpoint to the body, a bleeding wound I could not spot, a broken bone that did not belong to me. Every moment that passed where my body could not heal I grew more and more scared. On some days if I woke for long enough I’d cry.

Have you heard of the four humors? During the 16th-century, we believed all problems in the human body were sourced in an excess or lack of these humors. Yellow bile, black bile, phlegm, and blood. One of the common practices to heal from an excess of the blood humor was the practice of letting. Practitioners would slice open their patients and let the blood pour out of them. I imagine even within such a primitive practice there was relief. I believe my body was in excess. I felt myself full and filling, my skin stretching and head bursting as this casing attempted to make amends with the burden of my existence. I needed release, but sadly contained no pressure valve. As such, I let.

Letting was not enough, and that is how we meet, dear Reader. On good days, I’d write to you. The good days were still the days I’d cry, though. Also the days I could bring myself to let. As such, excuse the stains. Pen and paper have become my pressure valve, and you may now receive the steam. One day I will crawl down those stairs once more and throw this book out the gap in the wall. It will blind me to gaze out from these four walls, from the concrete that encases me, the concrete that hugs me. I do not know who and if someone will read this. I do not know what the outside world has in store for you, frankly I’ve no interest in your world. I just hope it’s as comfortable as mine, if not more.