Prompt #9
Andy used to imagine being free. The first time he was locked in solitary, he imagined being free all the time. Push-up after push-up, sit-up after sit-up, it was all he could see. His house, his wife's smile. The prison bars fading away like strains of music. Melting away like warm chocolate. Breaking apart like an earthquake -
He always opened his eyes and found himself back there. Five walls all the same, one wall a metal door. He never talked to himself, not for those first few years. Just imagined freedom.
Then his wife's divorce papers arrived, and he lost his first appeal. Then his second appeal was denied, and his latest release into the general prison had him beaten so hard he couldn't leave the infirmary for months.
Six years, and he stopped imagining freedom. Seven, and he stopped wanting freedom.
Nine years -
And he imagines it again. His hands trembling with the crushing weight of hope. So bad he can't breathe with it, can't do anything but wait, afraid that the evidence is real, afraid that the evidence is fake.
Now, freedom is different. He imagines a lake placid enough to reflect the sky, placid enough to calm the horrible silence inside him.
It is useless to seek peace outside oneself. For if there is no peace inside, than nothing without will alleviate the suffering within.
A lake. He'd dive under the surface and breathe the water and it would drown him as beautifully as he's drowning now.
A lake. A lake.
Placid.
Calm.
Peace within.
Andy frets. He doesn't like the idea that this place has changed him. That someone locked him up and changed him without his approval. That someone could have that kind of power.
He imagines the lake. He breathes.
He hopes.
He always opened his eyes and found himself back there. Five walls all the same, one wall a metal door. He never talked to himself, not for those first few years. Just imagined freedom.
Then his wife's divorce papers arrived, and he lost his first appeal. Then his second appeal was denied, and his latest release into the general prison had him beaten so hard he couldn't leave the infirmary for months.
Six years, and he stopped imagining freedom. Seven, and he stopped wanting freedom.
Nine years -
And he imagines it again. His hands trembling with the crushing weight of hope. So bad he can't breathe with it, can't do anything but wait, afraid that the evidence is real, afraid that the evidence is fake.
Now, freedom is different. He imagines a lake placid enough to reflect the sky, placid enough to calm the horrible silence inside him.
It is useless to seek peace outside oneself. For if there is no peace inside, than nothing without will alleviate the suffering within.
A lake. He'd dive under the surface and breathe the water and it would drown him as beautifully as he's drowning now.
A lake. A lake.
Placid.
Calm.
Peace within.
Andy frets. He doesn't like the idea that this place has changed him. That someone locked him up and changed him without his approval. That someone could have that kind of power.
He imagines the lake. He breathes.
He hopes.