A Beautiful Prison

Everything has become harder. Infinitely harder. Not only do I sit here, day after day, my mind whirring through different possibilities for a better life, but I’ve also forgotten the date. I stand and glance at the calendar on the wall, putting my hand on my hip. I stopped marking the dates months ago, but now I regret it. Each night I used to draw a little red X on the day and then go to sleep. But now, my calendar is completely blank. I flip back a few pages, biting my lip at the sight of all the empty months. November is empty. So is December and January. February is completely blank, just like the walls in my bedroom. They used to be purple, blooming with deep, rich shades. I painted over it with white because I thought it was time to try a new colour, so I picked out some pleasant shades of green and intended to paint each wall a different one. 

Now, the paint cans sit on the floor by the door, unopened and going stale. I release a withered sigh and stare at the calendar again, trying to decipher the day. How many weeks have passed? How many bland, unchanging days have passed? Every single day is the same. I wake up to an alarm set for 7:00 am, go brush my teeth and take a quick shower, then proceed to write an entry in my journal before eating a hearty breakfast of porridge and room-temperature water. I’m allowed to go out once in a while, to get necessities like food and toiletries, but that doesn’t change the fact my life is boring. After I write an entry in my journal and eat my porridge, I take a book off my shelf and read a chapter or two, nodding off every once in a while despite my abundance of energy. 

What I wouldn’t give to go on a hike in the fresh, outdoor air. Sometimes I read the classics, or adventure stories. Sometimes I read contemporary romances, or thrillers with a million twists. Sometimes I read fantasies, trying to distract myself from the blandness of this world I live in. I go and open the pantry and fridge, scanning it for its contents. In the pantry are stacks of canned goods, soups and fruits and everything in between. In the fridge is my meager supply of fresh and frozen food. I close my eyes. There’s no reason to go to the store; my pantry and fridge are both stocked completely. 

My mind keeps wandering back to the date. What day is it? What day is it? I have no idea, and that makes me mad. I pull back the blinds the slightest bit, sweeping my gaze across the neighbourhood. Everything is the same. People, locked inside their houses, blinds closed and porch lights off. I fall into my normal routine, taking a book off the shelf once I’ve finished eating. The question rings in my mind, driving me crazy. I stand and stomp over to my calendar, drawing a million red X’s across the blank pages. I stop once I reach March, because it feels like March. I haven’t been outside in a long time, but I can see birds flitting through bare trees when I peek out the window, and can hear spring rain falling from the sky in fat drops. That seems like my best guess. 

But as I stare at the calendar again, studying the word March! written in light, swirly writing, my breath catches. I’m getting angry, and I don’t even know why. I don’t know why this is killing me, why I’m getting so stressed over this. I live alone, and when the pandemic hit, I became completely closed off from the rest of the world. I haven’t seen my best friends or my parents in months, maybe even years. Like I said, it’s hard to tell how much time has passed. I wish I had a dog. I feel my shoulders slump and collapse on my bed, directing my gaze from the calendar to the popcorn ceiling. In the white monotony of the ceiling and walls, I see shapes and shadows dance, transforming into ghostly illusions. Am I going crazy? Does that happen just randomly? How will I know? I blink and the shadows are gone. Were they ever even there? I’m struggling to remember the day, struggling to remember the time and the world and everything I left behind.

Sometimes, I just want to run outside and scream. But I’d be endangering myself and the lives of others. A part of me doesn’t care. Would a crazy person care? I get out the paint and swipe messy streaks across my walls, ruining the clean-cut white. I take my calendar and tape it over my bed, on a new pistachio-coloured wall. My head aches. I paint the walls more, running my brush over spots I missed the first time. The walls are completely green now. The one across from my bed is olive-green, the one by my bookshelf is the same colour as blue-green seafoam, and the one across from that is the exact shade of crushed emeralds. It reminds me of a jungle. I take out the paint from past bedroom makeovers and start painting on the walls, turning the seafoam wall into an ocean scene, waves sloshing onto a sandy shore, the sun glittering off of the turquoise waters. The emerald wall turns into a viney jungle, a fat snake lounging across a tree.

The olive-green one transforms into a field at nighttime, the moon glowing like a snow-globe across the grass speckled with white flowers. The one by my bed I turn into a fantasy scene from one of my books. Three fairies flit in the air, crystalline wings outstretched. They fly over flowers, blending into the forest background. I paint one with her hand outstretched, balancing the calendar on the edge of her fingers. Satisfied with my work, I lie down. How many days have passed now? I peek through the window again, my shoulders sagging. It’s dark. Another one day, or two days, or three days has passed, and I still don’t know what the exact date is. If I’m going crazy, at least I’ll have my beautiful prison cell to keep me company.