Just in a Cell

No one can forgive me for what I’ve done. Or so she tells me in the stillest of night, with the calmest of breath. She says they know too much to let me go on unpunished, for that is why I am here, all alone among the cold, dark, and muffled cell. I am locked in here, at all hours of the day and all hours of the night. There is all but me, a rusted bucket, a twin-size mattress with a flattened, stained pillow, and a very small, very square window. The window never opens from the inside, as it is permanently locked, however, although the guards readily dismiss my claims, I have seen it open from the outside. How else would she be able to come in and visit me with her refined, habitual torments? She comes but once a week to feed me her compelling energy that only I can seemingly experience. That, or the guards let such brutality commence as a form of well-deserved punishment. 

Her words, such as her ghostly appearance, emit a savage sharpness disguised as meek, tender softness. When her words leave her lips, they are as delicate as a fresh, spring daisy. However, once they hit, they gnawingly sting like poison ivy wrapping around my throat. Not only do her words mercilessly suffocate my airways and burst my tender capillaries, but her eyes bring about a stark yet mesmerizing captivation of depth and despair. Her deep, radiant, big blue eyes illuminate with wicked intensity. Any eye contact I happen to make, no matter how swift or spare, feels like a thousand fiery swords scorchingly lacerating my skin. 

I can tell when she’s approaching through no action but my own. Immense shivers paralyze my nervous system, causing me to sweat profoundly and mutter in idiotic agony. My heart will not pound. Instead, it remains still, for even it cannot prepare nor escape the impending doom that will soon come through that very small, very square window. She evokes only this reaction from me, here in my cell, for she reeks with wrathful vengeance for me, and me alone. I am content with my suffering for the time being, however, pity me not, as I am receiving, endlessly, the wretched bearing I deserve. 

“Visions” … “V-Visions” … “Sh-she’s coming” … “I feel it in my-my b-b-bones,” I mutter and moan to myself under the midnight moonlight, contained in my cold and dark cell. I can faintly hear the guards down the distant hallway, through the thickness of the prison walls, as well as the rapid, destructive, and thunderous beating of my eager heart, mocking my utter despair. They are tired, I can sense, but they are basking in joyous laughter over my very real and very tortuous agony.  

“Christ, this guy a psychic now or somethin’? One of them squeals. The other laughs in between his shrill snorting, “Just his typical weekly nutty fits”. They both scoff at the inconvenience I’ve caused them by provoking my just, upcoming visit. 

Some time passes. Enough time for the moonlight to spill in through the window, as it is now directly adjacent to my view. She most usually arrives before the lunar gleam has time to dance inside my cell, but I mustn't allow myself any thought of foolishness that she may spare me tonight. Inconsistency within routine is her specialty. Although, the thought does ease the stress upon my heart, as well as every other organ keeping me breathing at this moment. As much as she devotedly despises my essence of being, I’m almost certain she would rather me be alive for each of her visitings, to prolong my warranted damnation. The moonlight exposes my agonizing anguish for only a minute longer before it decides to slowly shift past my cell, leaving me in total darkness yet again. With it goes my hope for ease, as I can hear her closely approaching. Her feet are as faint as whispers from the wind, but her intention is pervaded with potent fury. With each step that ruffles my widened ears, my heart beats faster and faster. It is trying to run away from her, but my brain knows all too well that is impossible, both realistically within time and space, as well as morally, for I am receiving what I deserve. That is why I remain conscious throughout her visit. I am conscious and aware through receiving her presence in its entirety, and tonight, I am ready and willing to be unmarked by her heinous violence. The only hope that can choose to exist here is the hope that the remainder of the night will pass quickly and that the sun will shine complete light upon my survival. 

“Lost in thought again, are we, Doctor?” 

Her sheer, imperfect-white night dress loosely drags over the rusted window sill. My eyes, dilated and stricken with impoverished fear meet with her eyes, glowing a luminous pale aura around her deep, blue ocean eyes. There is life, there is light, and there is willpower deep into her soul, that I am allowed to see upon the surface of her eyes. With this life, light and willpower comes a merciless rage powered by fair anger. Though I feel sunken and lost within my eyes, and rather, my mind, my appearance showcases a vulnerability that sparks her determination even more. I never speak to her, not with words, but rather groans and screams erupting from the pure misery she inflicts onto me. I can only wish that she views this as a sign of respect, rather than a sign of resilience, as it is the only true power I feel I can hold when we are alone together in my cell. Her dark brown, knotted hair dreadfully bounces off her cheeks as she approaches closer to my body. A steady, menacing contact is kept while she abruptly stops directly in front of me. She begins to hold out her right hand toward me, to which I slowly look down and notice her blackened, charred skin leading up to her deeply bruised wrist and arm. A warm tear hesitantly erupts from my eye while I shakingly hold out my hand, aiming to reach for hers, while we begin our journey for the night.