An Outsider

52. The number of tallies I had drawn onto the wall to my right. It had been almost two months since she’d left me here. The days had blurred together at this point, but when I closed my eyes I could still see the exact look on her face the day we said goodbye. Pain, confusion, relief. I couldn’t blame her honestly, she had given a better fight than I would have been able to muster in her position.

Then again, that’s the reason I’m in here and she’s not.

The sun was setting and my best guess was that it was somewhere around 6PM. I laid on the floor hoping that the icy tile would invigorate me enough to jolt me into action. Action for what, I wasn’t sure. Maybe an escape.

Instead, I laid there uncomfortable and cold until there wasn’t an ounce of light left in the room. 

Before I got here, I was convinced that all I needed was a quiet space to clear my head. I was sure if I had nothing better to do than be alone with my thoughts, I’d be able to figure out how I got so far away from reality in the first place. Yet, here I was, hundreds of hours later, with nothing but time, and I felt more unsure about myself than the first day I arrived. 

There was only one thing I knew. It had been 52 days. And as long as I had that to hold onto, I might be able to make it through this.

I had to reassure myself that this was what was best for me. She wouldn’t have left me here if there was any other choice. The only part I couldn’t reconcile was that I had no idea how many more days I’d be trapped. I needed some gauge of progress.

I was willing to accept my fate, but it was torturous not having a light to look forward to at the end of this long, dark tunnel. As silly as it may sound, the tallies on the wall reminded me that at least I was moving forward, even if only in time. 

I finally propped myself up and gathered enough strength to relocate to the small cot near the window. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I slipped into the only place that felt like an escape. I cherished those hours of sleep no matter how rarely they occurred. 

When I awoke, the room felt different. It smelled different. It looked different. Though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what had changed from just a few hours earlier.

I swung my legs over the side of the cot and waited a few moments before standing up. As I stretched, I leaned forward to try to loosen the muscles in my back. Once I noticed, I paused for a moment before falling to my knees. I scooted closer to the wall and inspected the clean white paint. 

“What the fuck,” I thought to myself, as I tried blinking several times to clear the sleep out of my eyes.

Surely, I was hallucinating. Or maybe I was still asleep.

“Yes, that’s it,” I thought, “I’m still asleep.” A wave of relief came over me as I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t possibly be awake.

I wasn’t yet prepared to come to terms with what that would mean if I was. 

I dragged my fingers over the ridges of the cement trying to make sense of why there wasn’t a trace of black ink. At first my caress was gentle, but as I became more confused, I grew frantic.

I started clawing at the wall until the space that was supposed to be painted with 52 black strokes became smeared in red. 

The walls were closing in on me, and I could feel a searing pain in my left temple. The pain was white hot. I was manically pacing the floor as I tried my best to ground myself. But the frustration made me wail and I banged my head on the tile as I lost control.

At that point, I could barely see straight. In an instant, I had descended back to the very state of mind that had brought me here. 

Suddenly, everything went black.

My eyes struggled to open as I started to gain consciousness again. I was acutely aware that I was no longer in the same room I had been in for all those days prior. 

There was a familiar scent in the air, and I knew she was present before I could see her. As the fogginess subsided, I was able to make out her shape at the end of the bed. Realizing I was awake, she began to speak.

“I thought you’d be okay," she whispered.

I tried to rebuttal but only a soft croak rose from my throat.

“Dont,” she said, “It’ll just be easier if we don’t try to pretend we don’t know what’s next.”

My eyes became hot, as tears streamed down the side of my cheek. She moved closer and wiped the dampness from my face, then leaned down and kissed my forehead. Her lips were soft and gave me the only sense of comfort I had felt in ages.

I felt safe, if only for a minute.

Several minutes of silence passed before a man with a clipboard entered the room asking for her signature. I could feel her reluctance as she grabbed the pen and signed her name to the paper. My fate sealed.

The tears came faster as the reality sank in that this would be the last time we would ever see each other. 

There was a stagnancy in the air that filled my nostrils, and made me nauseated with every breath. It was over, but I just wanted one more chance. One more chance to prove I could do better. Be better. 

Without an opportunity to explain, rightfully, it had looked like I had lost my mind all over again. I just wanted five minutes alone with her. But any hope for redemption had already expired.

In seconds, my fate would be realized. 

We shared a look that said everything we would never get the chance to. And with that, it was time.

The same man who had been carrying the clipboard re-emerged. He instructed me to dress and grab my belongings. This included just a backpack filled with a notebook, a marker and a fresh pair of socks. The only luxuries I’d ever be afforded again.

He escorted me down a long corridor and then finally out into the courtyard. The smell of fresh air was a welcomed delight. Although, I knew that small feeling of bliss would be short-lived, as soon as I stepped past the Gate.

We both climbed into the shuttle that was waiting at the end of the drive. There were plenty of seats onboard, but we were the only passengers.

As the wheels began to turn, the lump in the back of my throat began to rise and I felt like I was gonna be sick. I pushed the bile down. 

As we rode past fields of waste, I tried to make sense of how I’d gotten here. Exiled. It all seemed like an elaborate misunderstanding. If only I could explain. I was sabotaged.

I didn’t belong past the Gates, where a war-torn and ravaged coast laid barren. 

We had been riding for about twenty minutes, or maybe an hour. I couldn’t be sure, but when we pulled up to a desolate town off the side of what used to be a highway, my body wretched at the thought of getting off the shuttle. 

The man escorted me outside and explained that I had been deemed untreatable. Their best "efforts" at rehabilitation had failed, and recovery was not an option for me.

The snide way his mouth moved as he dangled my future in his hands made me believe my fate had been chosen long before the 52 days I spent in isolation. A trick. There had never been hope for me to redeem myself. It had been decided that I was a lost cause and They would do whatever They could to prove that.

A seemingly unprovoked breakdown was the only proof They needed. Of course, They had no idea it would be so easy to invoke my instability.

Erasing the only thing that was grounding me is all They had to do to make it clear. I could wake up for weeks on end playing the part of a functioning member in Their society, and then go off like a time-bomb without a moment's notice. 

I had fallen into Their trap. 

As the man walked away he turned and remarked, “You should feel right at home.” 

I watched the bus disappear into the sunset, until I was left standing there completely alone. I laughed aloud in sheer terror. My body was stiff with the knowledge that I wasn’t like the Others. I didn’t belong out here.

I set my bag down and looked out at the dilapidated expanse. I was now an outsider, among outsiders.