Solitary Prison

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A tortured mind, in a prison cell. Doing time for a regretful action.

Submitted: February 01, 2017

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Submitted: February 01, 2017

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A screech of tires with a sudden nasal burn from the smoke of a busted engine. The impact caused a shower of glass to pepper his body in splintered needles, offering no protection from the outside world. A 'window of opportunity' created, pulled him out for the need of it, with no options, and showed him the ropes. The ropes he will forever remember as the ropes of this mornings meal as he brought it up in the toilet. A total waste if you ask him, he grabbed his keys in pursuit for more of the fiery throat liquid that warmed his stomach and nuked his brain into a blissful odyssey. A life blood for him at this point. The only thing able to transfer his thoughts into a numbing reminder of things past and will never more be.

“My dear Darla, my memory is tainted with an image tattooed of your beauty. It is tainted with an image tattooed of your misgivings. Tainted with an image tattooed of your desertful nature. I long for embrace, but receive the wrong kind. I long for attention but receive the wrong kind. I long for forgiveness but receive the wrong kind. What more is there I can do but bide time, until acceptance into the unknown world beyond. Time will provide these things, but my watch is broken. And there is no clock on the wall, only the scrawled complaints of those previous. The four tick, cross stitch of counted days gone by. The scratching of little feet, and target profanities hurled my way as if I am the only one here in this god forsaken place.

I want change but change will not be offered to me. My change now are the different faces of the nameless uniformed keepers that walk these halls. My conversations are those now with myself. Sometimes I forget what to say but I don’t have much to talk about these days. Olfactory is now but a thing of the past as well from the stench of my own feces. A survival mechanism no doubt, thank god.”

The passage of time travels at half speed here. A slow grinding torture of solitude within the confines of my mind. My thoughts are no longer my thoughts, but those of a deeper psychology no man wishes to experience. A dangerous mix of guilt and remorse, building to a climax breaking point. A mind working double time creating a dreadful vortex of insanity. Some say it is the insanity that helps you through. For no sane man could endure this room, much less this building as a terrifying whole. My nightmares are my reality and my reality become my nightmares. The days of mine filled with a singular goal of sudden completion. An end to this struggle of monotonous existence.

“I weaved a rope of linen strands I tucked inside my bed

A crazy paranoia  of a growth within my head.

My vision lost, not physical, but metaphorical

My days of freedom, locked in past

--Philosophical--

I shall bite my dust, in tortured love

A blackened room devoid;

Of light, and soul, accompaniment

A truth I cannot hide

The time is now, goodbye my love

I will greet the other side

But where I am going

You will not be,

My spirit will burn, forever in time.

 


© Copyright 2018 Steve Bursey. All rights reserved.

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