Four and One

31122020

It was a lusterless wallpaper that adorned the chipped plaster. The dull light made the faint lines dance across the peripheries of his vision as he laboured on the latest addition. The repetitive scratch against the wall echoing disproportionately as he struggled to manoeuvre his wrist into the far recesses of the room. Crossing over the etchings he had made in the days prior, he examined yet another set of four and one. 

He was done. 

He rolled onto his back to stare absentmindedly at the ceiling above him, the etchings above soothing and familiar. It had been a unique challenge to make his mark on the ceiling above him but he had done it. The lines were a little fainter, perhaps less defined but still unmistakably there.  Panting as though he’d run a marathon he revelled in the fleeting euphoria that the markings evoked. Pride, accomplishment were strange emotions to feel perhaps but in this void where there were few pleasures to chase, the addition of a single line on the wall gave him daily purpose. 

Chalky. 

The taste as he slipped his chipped finger into his mouth was achingly familiar. His lips mimicked the texture of the plaster - rough, chapped and marked. He gathered a meagre measure of saliva around the digit before swallowing. Fixing his eyes on the corner of his cell he began his chant. It was another ritual - the task of counting meticulously the fruits of his labour as he willed himself to endure this solitary confinement for yet another day. Each number bolstered his determination - his voice finding strength in each uttering. 

Regret. 

An emotion he could no longer fathom. The man cared no more of the memories of his past, the mistakes, the pleasures, the joys, the trials nor the company. His existence had condensed into a microcosm of this cell. His day was governed by a carefully structured routine precipitating into a single mark on the wall that signified the passing of a day. It was a simple existence - painstakingly familiar and it had been years since his last deviation. 

Fear.

It was new; the stirrings uncomfortable and unfamiliar. He took a moment to examine it, dissect it. Why now? His eyes searched for his latest mark in the recess of the room. The light too appeared to search with him as his pupils dilated to make out the faint line he had just moments ago etched on the wall. Today he had made his tally on the last piece of virgin surface available to him. It was complete; this macabre masterpiece. His cell had finally surrendered to him the last of its freedom. 

Tomorrow. 

Ordinary. Routine. Expected. It beckoned him. Challenged him. Invited him even. But yet where would he acknowledge it? His eyes searched the room desperately for any bare plaster willing to receive his offering. If there was no room for tomorrow did that mean he had finally overstayed his welcome? He was restless, unhappy. He had nought to look back on but what his eyes could make out in front of him - a listless tally that was a meagre acknowledgement of his existence. And yet he feared that the promise of tomorrow would be lost to him. 

Sleep.

A necessary condition of his existence. His mind having achieved its daily dose of euphoria let go of his body despite his fleeting reservations. It cared not for the emergence of worry and musings that had been awakened but with frightening familiarity it recognized the passing of time and like a marionette whose strings were cut the man was, in an instant, dead to the world. Around him, the lights flickered. Consistent in its inconsistency as it sputtered; its glow revealed but also concealed while he slept on - lost in an abyss where there were no dreams.  

Bareness. 

That was what greeted him as he awoke; hIs eyes chasing away the cobwebs of sleep. He stared perplexed at the white canvas that stretched out in front of him, above him as well as below. Startled he was struck by nostalgia - as his mind grasped at but then lost his earliest memories of his cell. The white walls beckoned mockingly as if the last few years of abuse had not existed - as if it had simply been erased. He stumbled as if in a trance, tracing his fingers along the unmarred surface wonderingly like a child as he dragged, crawled and walked his way around the familiar that had become unfamiliar. 

Realization. 

It was gone. Lost. As if it had never existed. He felt lightheaded, delirious and oddly free. It was as if each mark had been a link in a chain that had entrapped him and he had suddenly been untethered. The taste of blood was on his lips as his mouth let out a hacking laugh; lips tearing and lungs heaving. He felt as though he had been granted a lease on life; a new beginning, a new purpose. He was comforted by the knowledge that his journey had not ended. He had more opportunities for fulfilment - to taste that sweet joy of accomplishment. And this time he was braver - secure in the knowledge that he had done it once before. 

New beginnings. 

It was, he fathomed a clean slate. He had no guarantee for the future, had no guarantee that he would be permitted his existence tomorrow. But for the moment he had today. He had the opportunity to make his mark - no matter how small or how insignificant he had that right. Standing with new vigour he approached the farthest corner of the room pausing for a moment to reflect. He had always ended his day with a mark; always ended the day with the celebration that he had simply survived but perhaps he could start anew. Perhaps he should start the new canvas with a mark celebrating instead the day that lay ahead. As so it began with deliberate strokes of his nail against the plaster as he began his first record for the dreary days ahead. 

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