The Burden of Martyrdom

Before I would speak further of my current whereabouts and moral dilemma, there is one thing that I must make absolutely clear, perfect and unimpeachable: I, Jeremy Harrow, am an innocent man.

I cannot say as to whether or not my trial was skewed by a force or party beyond my knowing; whether I accidentally spoke an error or contradiction during my long interrogation that perhaps gave credibility to my false imprisonment. I was, after all, a lonesome man from out of town, with no real friends or family within a hundred miles, temporarily moved into a new locale by the command and necessity of my work. If some group or individual needed a scapegoat, there would none more opportune than myself in this present moment. The only truth I know and hold for certain is that of my innocence; I am not the offender, I did not kill that boy.

 I did attempt to make good partnerships with the locals in the five weeks before my arrest, but it would seem I failed in this endeavour. I am a quiet man, but not antisocial, I truly did make an attempt; but in their eyes, their mannerisms…I saw that I was just an outsider to them, an unnecessary addition to their unbroken routine. They held no place in there for outsiders.

I say “There,” of course, because I am no longer in that small town. I did spend some weeks in that town’s small penitentiary, with cells so small you would think the gaol was packed with criminals and that crime was a common pass-time in that community. Alas, such was not the case; it seemed as if that gaol was only for me. But, after some time, I was brought before some officers of the law under the pretence of being transferred to another facility. At the time, this news introduced a small droplet of joy or relief into the spiralling, incoherent, negative maelstrom that was my mind at that time.

We travelled by cart for a day before I spent the night in another cell of another penitentiary. That one was no bigger than a horse box it seemed, but I had been informed previous by an officer that this was not my new residence, and so I was able to avoid the insanity that came with the idea that this was my new residence.

The next day, we embarked by cart again. I should mention that, during the travel between gaols, I was transported with a burlap sack placed over mine own head. Despite this, the fresh air that seeped through the holes in the sack and breezed against my skin was a heavenly sensation after being stuck in those cold, grey stone cells. Those boxes were only fit to store produce or the dead, not the living with their mind still to torment them. It was on those unknown roads that I came to understand that only the deprivation of something makes you truly able to appreciate it once it is returned, even the grace of cold wind harkening a storm.

Eventually, the soft sound of dirt beneath the hooves of the horses transporting us was replaced by the resounding clack of stone slab as we came under a ceiling. Soon after, I was lead down from the carriage, freed of the burlap and escorted to my new enclosure. At the end of a well lit brick corridor I was greeted with another prison. The pang of disappointment that rang through me then made me realise that there was still a part of me that honestly believed that I would be given one last opportunity for freedom. 

As I was escorted up some flights of metal prison stairs, I tripped, twice or thrice. It was there in those moments that the sense of real hopelessness had found root in my soul, and it dizzied me. My eyes would not focus; my mind would not compute; my body would not function. Nonetheless, each time my knees would meet the stairs I was failing to ascend, an officer, or perhaps a guard, would raise me back up. Yet, despite the repeated failure of my legs and the undoubtedly annoying frequency with which they had to winch me back up to my feet, they never seemed to do so with any indication of anger, frustration or mocking; just a solemn duty. If they had given the notion of any frustration, or any sort of emotion at that, perhaps that would have coaxed something out of me in turn; an outburst, or a final plea of innocence. Alas, they remained stoic during their time as my escort, and so I stayed trapped in my numbing hopeless, mindless state. 

They escorted me to my cell, and it is here that I write. This cell is as large as my two previous cages put together. Red brick walls climb around me and slope into a circular arch ceiling above me. A bed lies tucked into the back corner of the room; a bible rested upon its sheets when I first entered. I was not a godly man before my imprisonment, I confess, but I do find myself turning to the divine now. I feel any man in my situation would. Reading its passages has become something of a comforting pass-time, along with other, small assortment of books provided on the bookshelf by the right wall of the cell. Adjacent to the bed on the back wall was a wall-mounted typewriter and the metal mouth of an opening, similar to that of a mailbox. It is with that same typewriter that I now type these words. Upon the red brick wall to my right, the left if you are walking into my cell, sits two more depositories for cups and trays, and a dull gold rule board, the laws of the prison etched into its surface:

1. Do not attempt escape
2. Do not attempt to enter the central tower
3. You may talk between cells, but do not create uproar
4. During free time, proceed only to the courtyard
5. Post any requests through the maildrop

I suppose I should describe to you, the reader, the strange structure of this prison, as I do not know who would be reading this, or where they are.

The prison itself seems to be circular in construction, with the only obvious protrusions being the door to the courtyard and the hallway, and the inlet for carriages at the end of it, which I walked through when entering the building. That entrance is now barred off with what seems to be a sort of portcullis. Around the circumference of the building is lined completely with cells, save for the bottom floor. There are three floors of cells accessible via the lattice metal catwalks that rise from the ground floor and circle all the way up the walls to the third. I estimate that there are five cells on each floor, fifteen prisoners total, each cordoned off with crossing iron bars. My cell is on the second floor to the north-west, assuming the entry hallway points south.

The curved red brick wall stretches some ten-feet higher past the third floor before it meets a large, dome glass roof that reminds us of the outside world, encapsulating the building. It was through this window that I watched the great storm roll over us the day of my arrival. The rain had hammered against the ceiling and filled this red crypt with the sound of reverberant thunder, as I wondered if it had been sent to drown out my prayers of freedom from the rest of the living world.

Finally, the central tower mentioned in the plaque. Rising from the centre of the ground floor, a circular watchtower stands. On the ground floor, the first floor, the second and the third, the watchtower holds a room; a room hidden from our view by a mirror that surrounds the room’s entire perimeter, only showing our own reflections when we try to look inside. Between these mirrors and rooms, bands of pale stone serve to reinforce and structure the tower.

Now, you may be asking how I know that there is a room at all beyond these mirrors when I cannot see into them; a fair observation. However, these mirrors are bizarre, unusual. At certain intervals of the day a beacon of light, similar to that of a lighthouse that uses those prism domes, sweeps each floor with the intensity of a sunny day in both illumination and heat. Now, these four lights, one for each floor, originate from behind these mirrors, meaning there is indeed space beyond our sight. 

The purpose of the spotlights seem only to be to enlighten our cells and, if our sleep is shallow enough, to wake us from it. Now, what would be the purpose of illuminating our cells if not for one outside the cell to look inside? The view of the beacon itself is obstructed behind this queer mirror, so I see it as only logical that those who watch us lurk behind it too; those invisible rooms would give perfect, unobstructed viewing to the entire prison if it is true that they can see us from their side.

However, despite the compelling case I argue, I must pivot on my own argument now. During my months here I have come to believe that there are, in fact, very few people managing this building; this belief is core in understanding the dilemma I find myself in. Let me explain.

We begin our days with being released in groups of three to go downstairs and to collect our breakfast, most commonly an egg and two strips of bacon with orange juice. Once collected, we return to our cells and break our fast. If we do not return and break our fast elsewhere, we are punished with deprivation of our next meal, as other prisoners have found out the hard way. We do not see any prison worker. 

Once breakfast is over, each floor of five prisoners is released and granted one hour in the courtyard, where an assortment of ball and board games can be played. The walls of the courtyard are high and intimidating, but this is the one opportunity we get to feel the outdoors in our daily lives. Once your hour is over, we return to our cells for two hours while the other floors enjoy their time outside. After all floors have been to the courtyard, the cycle repeats to cover a total six hours of our day. We do not see any prison worker.

Our final routine is our final meal of the day; the same procedure as our first only the food is different: assorted vegetables and chicken with water. Once we have all eaten and deposited our trays and cups in the chutes next to the golden plaque we wait until dark. We can read, sleep, talk amongst ourselves, type up “requests,” but this is the end of the day for all intents and purposes. And, of course, we do not see a prison worker.

The meals are simple and come at a manageable pace for one person to procure, even for the fifteen of us. In the courtyard, the red brick walls slope inwards, making them impossible to climb. No one watches over us and, if you are lucky enough to catch a moment of perfect quietude, all you will hear is the rustling of windswept grass over the walls. Well, once I swore I heard the clucking of chickens somewhere distant; perhaps a small coup from where they procure our food. At night, the only time when perfect silence is guaranteed, no footsteps echo down the hallway to indicate the presence of a fellow man.

That leaves only the obscured world behind the glass of the central watchtower, but I have my own reasons to believe that even that space is hollow of life. The beacons that sweep our cells, they move so smoothly, so consistently; after all this time I find myself unable to believe that they are moved by human hands. I know a lack of human presence would completely invalidate the function of a watchtower, but still I believe it is so.

A thought has occurred to me while writing about the mechanical nature of the beacon, and it is about the doors of our cells. When it is our time to leave, the lock of the door unlocks with a clank, and the door slowly opens by itself. Once we return, the doors close just as slowly and lock themselves again with a clank, as if guided by ghosts. The locks do not have keyholes, but are instead a solid silver box. I cannot speak to the number of people manning this institution, nor even the type of fuel that would even be used for the beacon or the doors. But I can say this, even as a layman: This building is a mechanical wonder beyond its years.

Finally, I suppose I should touch on the company I keep in this institution in order to give you the best understanding of my dilemma. In case you have forgotten, I am an innocent man. However, I do not believe I can say the same of any other man here. I first recognised the men directly across from my cell on my second day of being here; two partners in rustling cattle I had read about in a paper as I made my way down to that small town. Another man from the floor above I had recognised as he collected his breakfast below one day: a notorious highwayman who’s face I recognised from wanted posters across towns I had visited; Peter…something-or-other.

Those were the only two I actually recognised, but an event occurred a week or so ago that prompted me to write this: A fight broke out between two men on the ground floor below us as they came back from their courtyard session. One man was knocked unconscious and fell, cracking his head on the floor.

He died there that day. The bloodshed was one thing, but the next two days were another. His body stayed there, reeking and rotting for all the cells to smell and fight their meals down against. As punishment? A couple of prisoners even shouted down the hallway and outside for someone to collect the man, to no response; but come the third day and the man was gone, his cell remaining empty. To me, this confirmed the criminal nature of every other man here.

I may be large, but I am a common folk, I do not want to be around when another incident occurs. Which finally leads me to my conundrum.

I believe I have figured out the workings of the locks and have devised a way of escape. However, if this works, there’s a good chance that I unleash these monstrous people back into the world again.

Firstly, I believe the locks function by utilising a phenomenon known as electromagnetism, another topic I had read about some time ago on the road. I speculated such for a while, but my theory was confirmed one stormy night. Lightning struck close by, rattling the entire building. It was then that I heard my lock click, then click again some moments later. I only heard such a slight noise due to having my head right by the lock that one night, looking up at the furious heavens above.

I believe those two clicks were the sound of the unlocking and re-locking of the door, surely due to that disruptive lightning bolt. The lock on the gate leading to the entrance hallway is the same as that of our cell doors, if a bit larger. If my senses do not betray me, I believe we are coming to the end of a summer; storm season.

My plan is as simple as I hope it is efficacious. Sit by my door during a storm, pray for the locks to err, then run like hell for the only exit I know.

I have typed out several pages from this typewriter explaining my innocence and deposited them down the maildrop, but none have been humoured with a response. I am an innocent man, this is my last chance and resort.

However…

Should I do this, the scum I have shared air with these past months will likely follow and escape back into the world. Even if there are people working here in flawless secrecy, even my most generous estimate of a workforce would be overwhelmed by this horde of desperate killers. I saw no further walls nor watchtowers behind me when I first came here, nor weapons among their deliveries. We all would escape.

I could be free.

But I find myself wondering if I should. In the living world, I am a run-of-the-mill physician. I may crave freedom, but does the world long for me enough to excuse the scourge I would return to it? I have no great wealth to offer; no unique skill nor exceptionality in my field. Might it truly be in best faith to remain here, as the key in the lock of this prison; until another happens upon the fault or the fault is repaired altogether? This may be my only chance, but at what cost? Are these men all guilty, truly?

My thoughts return to the bible at my bedside.

Dear reader, I do not know of you or your circumstance, but I intend to keep this memoir on my person. Whether it be found, in the future, on a carcass buried forgotten under meadow mud, or in the pocket of a skeleton in a cell, clutching a bible, I only hope that your future is a good one. 

And I hope I better that future in some way, either by sacrifice or service.

Jeremy James Harrow

1868-