To Break the Pencil

Four white walls, a bed covered with starched sheets, a table, and a chair. Everything surrounding me screams blank. Waking up every day, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and shuffle over to the table where a meal is simply laid out next to a sheet of paper and #2 pencil. Where does it come from? No idea. Oatmeal, again. Everything here is bland. 

Picking up the pencil, I begin to mark up a smooth piece of paper. Silence is my best comfort, and the only discontinuities to it are the gentle scratching of graphite on paper and the constant voice inside my head issuing orders. These etchings I create do not come from sense, nor do they come from reason. I doodle because it is what is commanded of me.

You must reform. Conform. Comply. Submit. Relinquish. 

Words, pictures, scribbles, anything flows from the tip of the pencil. Closing my eyes, I let the Council guide my mind and my hand. Conform. Comply. Submit. Relinquish. Those words are pressed deeply onto the pristinely white surface. Over and over again they recur as if the words themselves are trying to communicate. 

The pencil never slows when the Council controls me, but the lines have now become incoherent. Allowing the wagging tip to stop, I lay the pencil to the side and pick up the paper, studying my work for any other hint of what the Council has decided for me today. Relinquishing my consciousness to the leaders of our nation was one of the consequences for deciding to think freely one year ago. 

“One mustn’t think for themselves,” The voice of reason had scolded me. “To think for yourself is to allow discord. To allow discord is to allow harm. To allow harm is a crime.” 

Thinkers were frowned upon here. Many don’t last long because they don’t fit in among the masses, and the council apprehends then and then “reforms” them. Saying “No” to the Council was a capitol offense. Punishable by one year in solitary confinement and compliance therapy.

Conform. Comply. Submit. Relinquish. The first day of my confinement, my vision changed. Life lost its luster. Color, depth, and texture all rebelled in unison, leaving me with nothing to see but white, flat, and smooth. My mind was also cleansed by the Council. Wiped of all consciousness, and replaced with compliance. What I thought and did was dictated by the Council. For two weeks after, I laid on the bed, ate my meal when it was time, and thought about nothing. 

The pencil and paper then showed up. When I saw them, my urging was to sit down and write, and write I did. Words that were not my own flowed onto the page filling up front and back. Given only one page to write on, they began to overlap themselves telling the story of my nation, and how thinking had caused widespread dissension and wrecked havoc. 

For two more weeks I wrote. Every day I found one new piece of paper and a sharpened pencil laying on the table. Pausing for food, water, sleep, or relieving myself was not an option because my body was commanded by my thoughts which were not my own. 

Then, the words stopped. Ended. The salvation of a nation by a council who revokes the act of freethinking was smattered over each page. Each line giving a reason people should relinquish control of their thoughts and actions. A nation where everyone works together in harmony, no quarrels, no violence. Just compliance.

For every month after that, I embraced their truth. It was the path of least resistance. The fervor I experienced with writing now converted to a ravenous hunger for reading. The pages my hands had grown numb scribbling out became my scripture. Reading the overlapping words brought me solace knowing that the truth was set before me. The council was saving me from myself. They had saved me from myself. 

Pouring over the pages, I loathed the fact that I had ever resisted the council in the first place, vowing to never again allow my thoughts and feelings to cloud my judgement. My mind went numb, and I let go of who I was. The council overwhelmed me body, soul, mind, spirit. I could feel my consciousness floating as if on a lazy stream, bobbing, drifting, and getting further and further from reach. 

Over and over I read the lines of text. With each sitting, my belief in the council only grew. Until today. For one year, my purpose was to write, to read, to memorize, and to internalize the agenda of the nation. That was the Council’s plan for my rehabilitation. But today, another piece of paper appeared, clean and white. A pristinely sharpened pencil by its side, ready for another round of frenzied etching. Sitting in front of the page as I had done before, I closed my eyes to allow the council to take over once again. I felt the nudge inside me to begin moving the pencil across the page, however it seemed different than usual. This time, it only lasted a second, and was then gone. 

I waited for more. I wanted more. Eyes still closed, I begged the council to take the reigns of my mind and guide me to more truth, feeding the nagging inside of me to comply. Nothing. My eyes slowly opened, and I glanced down at the page. 

NO

The fog was lifted from my eyes. Depth, color and texture flooding my vision. My mind threw me back with the force of a hurricane blast, I felt my consciousness rushing back to me. Thoughts, images, and desires which were all forbidden overwhelmed my senses. The council no longer my saving grace, but instead an enemy to be reckoned with. The voice inside my head no longer was the soothing droll of a council member dictating my actions. I had a voice. I had an opinion. I had power. 

A shock reverberated through my limbs, and my body tensed. I felt myself falling from the chair, the ground grew near. My head smashed the floor sending stars across my field of vision. I laid there for hours, thoughts swirling, arguing with each other. Conform...how? Comply...why? Submit...to what? Relinquish...to who? Back and forth they went while I closed my eyes trying to quell the storm within.

The world came into focus, and I hear a ringing in my ears. My thoughts are silent. For the first time, there is no command, no instructions telling me what to do next. I test out the muscles in my hand and give the floor a sharp rap with my closed fist. Pain ripples up my arm. I chose to do that. I controlled my actions. The Council didn’t issue a command. I have authority over my own body and it leaves me feeling naked. 

  A knocking sounds across the room. Almost cadence-like, it is too loud to be something just inside my head. I try refocusing my eyes while sitting up, making an effort to ascertain exactly where the source of the sound is. It grows in volume from knocking to pounding, and a small hole appears on the far wall, dust and bits of drywall crumbling around it. The hole grows bigger and bigger until it is the size of my fist. The pounding continues to increase in intensity and I scoot away, afraid of being struck with flying debris. I hide myself behind the bed just in time for the hole to explode sending dust everywhere in the room. 

Squinting my eyes, bits of sediment cause my eyes to itch. Blinking away what I can, the dust settles after a minute, and standing in the human sized opening is a child. She looks to be no older than twelve with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She is carrying some kind of weapon that almost dwarfs her.

“So this is the freethinker I’ve heard so much about.” Her voice the tone of a grown woman. “Come on. The Council won’t last much longer with you against them.” She motions for me to follow, and steps into the dark void of the wall.

  The pencil and all my papers lie scattered on the floor, some torn from the debris. Carefully I pick the writing utensil up and close my eyes. My mind an ominous chamber recently wiped of all contents moments before. I grip the pencil with both hands and pull either side downward. 

The pencil splinters with a sharp snap. The two halves fall from my fingers and landing amongst the graphite covered pages.

Opening my eyes, the hole in the wall is still there. My future is still before me and I step into the unknown darkness.