Say No More Part 1
I don't know why I've titled it as such. I might rename it, but I doubt it. This is in parts, but they'll all probably be done today because it's all that's on my mind.
The night is fraught with rain. Each drop falls like a tear and as they descend, they sadden the atmosphere. A miracle has happened, a very strong injustice has been postponed, the consequences of which are also very strong. Those who will come to not understand they are being manipulated will help her, and all the others who will fear it work to destroy her.
The watchman patrolling the perimeter of the complex stops in his tracks when his light passes over something odd. There is a gaping hole in the double chain link fence. It is not a clean one either, as though the fence were involved in an epic struggle and only just barely given up its grasp over interment. All the blood has been washed off the cold metal and pools around the grass beneath it, now red with the mark of passion. The guard’s first reaction should be, and almost is, to call in for reinforcements. He is supposed to yell into his remote communication device the complicated array of numbers and letters that signifies a perimeter breach has occurred. But he’s too irate to give his asshole superior the satisfaction of stealing the show on one of the most spectacular events to ever occur at the asylum. The watchman decides what his next course of action will be. His job is to patrol the interior of the fence, and now he decides to check first if anything has crossed over to the outside. That is of course, also the most urgent thing to do. It is far more important if something has escaped than if something has come in. Who would break into the asylum court anyway?
The watchman gets down on his knees, soaking them with water and the blood of whatever has been through before him. There is no trail of blood on either side of the fence even though there should be as blood has been drawn. He climbs through, taking care to avoid all the sharp pieces of fence that threaten him. On the other side, he stands up and holds out his lantern. All he can see is the grassy underside of what he feels to be a lake. If it were a cave, he would feel a miner, as he is dressed in old yellowed clothes, thick and baggy. But with the water above him and not below as it should be, he feels like a diver. He walks forward out into the expanse of night and stops again when something other than grass catches his eye. There is the tiny frame of a child curled up in the grass. She is lying not twenty yards from where the hole in the fence was torn.
The watchman picks up his radio but does not depress the button that allows him to speak. When the night began, he was furious. He was called away from his family for the fifth time this month to patrol the night watch, an uneventful, tiring and as he feels, completely unnecessary shift. Upon arriving, his asshole supervisor yelled at him for being late, and the watchman’s anger exploded into silence and immediately simmered to a seething hate. It was raining outside, and he wouldn’t be allowed to come back in for a break for three hours. Every other raindrop was landing in his eyes; he was convinced as he slowly marched his route. “Strongholds are impenetrable,” he muttered. “And the asylum sucks the life out of its prisoners”. It was sucking the life out of him too. Before he began working as a watchman, he would have protested to such mistreatment as to call a guard who’s been dismissed for the day to come back and work another shift. But those days are gone, and his protest falls silent. Soon, such things may not even anger him. “There shouldn’t be anyone inside with a strong enough will to carry them outside.”
Shouldn’t, but now he stands above the frame of a small girl who may have also destroyed a section of fence. There are fresh cuts on her arms and legs, though the blood has begun to clot. She is curled around something dull and gold in color. It’s the steward’s key! People outside these fences think that the democracy running their state also has power inside the asylum. But anyone who works, or resides as the case may be, here knows that the steward is in full control. His superiors and subordinates alike all follow his lead. The only power to which he has been granted by his job is over the prisoners, whom he likes to watch over as though they were his prized flock; his unscrupulous gaze their unending torture. Having worked here since its establishment, he is the reason that no prisoner has ever escaped. Everyone fears him and his golden key, which is the only key to all the locks in the facility. It used to be a bright shiny mark of authority, but now it is a dull icon, just as powerful, but looks as though if you touched it you would be stricken with all the ailments that come after being cut by a rusty metal object. The key is vile and ancient and represents all the horrid things within the asylum and the steward’s power over it. Now it is in the hands of this girl.
As the rain pours down over the watchman’s face, it makes him forget that he has an obligation to call in to his supervisor that there is an escapee, that he is working his second shift that day, soon to be followed by a third and that he has been taken away from dinner with his family to fill such a shift. The rain quells his seething anger and he feels compassion for the girl. He realizes then that he will be here forever. He is just as much a prisoner as she had been before this night. All his hopes and dreams will soon be consumed by a simple job in a horrifying place and then even worse, he will be forgotten. He begins to see in her all the things he will never get to see ever again. She is something less than hope, because there is no hope for an escapee, but she is no longer a prisoner.
The watchman crouches down and shakes her shoulder. She begins to awaken as he tells her that it is time to wake up. Her body is stirred as he says that she is free now. Then she quickly becomes aware as he informs her that he will give her as much time as he can before he alerts his supervisor. Suddenly she is beneath the downpour of a gentle rain staring at a bright light gleaming down into her face. She aches and there is the feeling of fresh cuts on her limbs. To her, it feels more like chains and bonds of every kind have been ripped to shreds in a torrent of passionate fury. But the struggle has drained her, she has gotten no further than to release her and still lies among the ruined symbols of her confinement, slowly willing herself to sleep. She is now awake, but just barely. “You must go now. If anyone else finds you here, there is nothing what can be done, not even by yourself, to save you again.” He looks down at her. Her right hand is clutching onto the forsaken symbol of interment and just above it is the brand given to her and every other prisoner in the asylum. It is a set of numbers with which she can be immediately identified by anyone who works inside, but to the watchman it is cryptic. The idea of a brand is only slightly worse than his pension, which he may never receive, because everyone will see that she was once in the asylum.
The girl takes her time standing up and once she is confident of her balance, she runs off into the night. The watchman had thought about asking for her to return the key, but secretly, he wanted it gone. The steward will now look and feel naked without his symbol of authority. The best part is that now, all the shackles will have to be removed. The key is unique and the mold destroyed as soon as it was created. New molds couldn’t be forged, no matter how hard they tried, because of all the unique features and impurities the key requires to function. The watchman waits as long as he can, the length of time it will take him to return to the security housing, before he calmly dictates to his radio the code for perimeter breach and prisoner escape.
The night is fraught with rain. Each drop falls like a tear and as they descend, they sadden the atmosphere. A miracle has happened, a very strong injustice has been postponed, the consequences of which are also very strong. Those who will come to not understand they are being manipulated will help her, and all the others who will fear it work to destroy her.
The watchman patrolling the perimeter of the complex stops in his tracks when his light passes over something odd. There is a gaping hole in the double chain link fence. It is not a clean one either, as though the fence were involved in an epic struggle and only just barely given up its grasp over interment. All the blood has been washed off the cold metal and pools around the grass beneath it, now red with the mark of passion. The guard’s first reaction should be, and almost is, to call in for reinforcements. He is supposed to yell into his remote communication device the complicated array of numbers and letters that signifies a perimeter breach has occurred. But he’s too irate to give his asshole superior the satisfaction of stealing the show on one of the most spectacular events to ever occur at the asylum. The watchman decides what his next course of action will be. His job is to patrol the interior of the fence, and now he decides to check first if anything has crossed over to the outside. That is of course, also the most urgent thing to do. It is far more important if something has escaped than if something has come in. Who would break into the asylum court anyway?
The watchman gets down on his knees, soaking them with water and the blood of whatever has been through before him. There is no trail of blood on either side of the fence even though there should be as blood has been drawn. He climbs through, taking care to avoid all the sharp pieces of fence that threaten him. On the other side, he stands up and holds out his lantern. All he can see is the grassy underside of what he feels to be a lake. If it were a cave, he would feel a miner, as he is dressed in old yellowed clothes, thick and baggy. But with the water above him and not below as it should be, he feels like a diver. He walks forward out into the expanse of night and stops again when something other than grass catches his eye. There is the tiny frame of a child curled up in the grass. She is lying not twenty yards from where the hole in the fence was torn.
The watchman picks up his radio but does not depress the button that allows him to speak. When the night began, he was furious. He was called away from his family for the fifth time this month to patrol the night watch, an uneventful, tiring and as he feels, completely unnecessary shift. Upon arriving, his asshole supervisor yelled at him for being late, and the watchman’s anger exploded into silence and immediately simmered to a seething hate. It was raining outside, and he wouldn’t be allowed to come back in for a break for three hours. Every other raindrop was landing in his eyes; he was convinced as he slowly marched his route. “Strongholds are impenetrable,” he muttered. “And the asylum sucks the life out of its prisoners”. It was sucking the life out of him too. Before he began working as a watchman, he would have protested to such mistreatment as to call a guard who’s been dismissed for the day to come back and work another shift. But those days are gone, and his protest falls silent. Soon, such things may not even anger him. “There shouldn’t be anyone inside with a strong enough will to carry them outside.”
Shouldn’t, but now he stands above the frame of a small girl who may have also destroyed a section of fence. There are fresh cuts on her arms and legs, though the blood has begun to clot. She is curled around something dull and gold in color. It’s the steward’s key! People outside these fences think that the democracy running their state also has power inside the asylum. But anyone who works, or resides as the case may be, here knows that the steward is in full control. His superiors and subordinates alike all follow his lead. The only power to which he has been granted by his job is over the prisoners, whom he likes to watch over as though they were his prized flock; his unscrupulous gaze their unending torture. Having worked here since its establishment, he is the reason that no prisoner has ever escaped. Everyone fears him and his golden key, which is the only key to all the locks in the facility. It used to be a bright shiny mark of authority, but now it is a dull icon, just as powerful, but looks as though if you touched it you would be stricken with all the ailments that come after being cut by a rusty metal object. The key is vile and ancient and represents all the horrid things within the asylum and the steward’s power over it. Now it is in the hands of this girl.
As the rain pours down over the watchman’s face, it makes him forget that he has an obligation to call in to his supervisor that there is an escapee, that he is working his second shift that day, soon to be followed by a third and that he has been taken away from dinner with his family to fill such a shift. The rain quells his seething anger and he feels compassion for the girl. He realizes then that he will be here forever. He is just as much a prisoner as she had been before this night. All his hopes and dreams will soon be consumed by a simple job in a horrifying place and then even worse, he will be forgotten. He begins to see in her all the things he will never get to see ever again. She is something less than hope, because there is no hope for an escapee, but she is no longer a prisoner.
The watchman crouches down and shakes her shoulder. She begins to awaken as he tells her that it is time to wake up. Her body is stirred as he says that she is free now. Then she quickly becomes aware as he informs her that he will give her as much time as he can before he alerts his supervisor. Suddenly she is beneath the downpour of a gentle rain staring at a bright light gleaming down into her face. She aches and there is the feeling of fresh cuts on her limbs. To her, it feels more like chains and bonds of every kind have been ripped to shreds in a torrent of passionate fury. But the struggle has drained her, she has gotten no further than to release her and still lies among the ruined symbols of her confinement, slowly willing herself to sleep. She is now awake, but just barely. “You must go now. If anyone else finds you here, there is nothing what can be done, not even by yourself, to save you again.” He looks down at her. Her right hand is clutching onto the forsaken symbol of interment and just above it is the brand given to her and every other prisoner in the asylum. It is a set of numbers with which she can be immediately identified by anyone who works inside, but to the watchman it is cryptic. The idea of a brand is only slightly worse than his pension, which he may never receive, because everyone will see that she was once in the asylum.
The girl takes her time standing up and once she is confident of her balance, she runs off into the night. The watchman had thought about asking for her to return the key, but secretly, he wanted it gone. The steward will now look and feel naked without his symbol of authority. The best part is that now, all the shackles will have to be removed. The key is unique and the mold destroyed as soon as it was created. New molds couldn’t be forged, no matter how hard they tried, because of all the unique features and impurities the key requires to function. The watchman waits as long as he can, the length of time it will take him to return to the security housing, before he calmly dictates to his radio the code for perimeter breach and prisoner escape.