Deadline

It is dark and cold. But I am used to it.
It is black but I can not remember the light.
There is light but I do not recognize it.

I am trapped but can not remember freedom. 

   It is noisy and smelly but I do remember silence and scents. If so, why can I not remember light?

I know, there was light but not the light that brightens your days, that feeds you, that makes you happy. Have I ever seen such light? As a child perhaps? Sadly I can not answer your question. I might have blocked the memories. I must have, how else could I have survived my prisoned life for so long without getting insane?

   Have I ever been a child at all..... please tell me I was! Please tell me I once was an innocent baby, smiling, babbling, playing. Or a toddler, falling and getting up, learning to walk, to play, to run. But above all, loved.

   If there was love, I can not remember. I ask you, what is love? Is it food and water? Punishment to teach you obedience? Harnessing your soul to be a better person than..... than who or what? I never found the answer so I am asking you. Can you hear me? Will you hear me?

   I was never heard, so please be excused not to answer my questions.
I learned very fast not to ask questions, they only caused pain, not words, not replies. The physical pain I learned to bare, the mental pain became my second nature. My second I.
I talked to my mental pain, gave it a name to make her feel comfortable. To ensure her the other I loved her although I never knew what love was. But at least my mental pain had company and so had I.

   Where we did not talk about was yesterday. Because all yesterdays were black. We invented tomorrows in which we were free. Even happy maybe. We talked about what happiness was, or was supposed to be and we decided it had to be freedom. We also questioned each other if we could bare freedom because, and I am very honest, freedom also contains independence. And you will have understood by now, that this was not something we knew about at all. The word had a nice taste, felt good in my mouth. But what was it!

   You wonder how we know all these words?
It will surprise you the only book I was allowed to read was a dictionary. Old, moulded but to us, to me, so valuable. Someone must have written it, it was therefore my connection to the unknown world outside, the spares light which penetrated the filthy glass in the tiny window high up the wall of my dark cell. You see, that is how I know light exists. But it faded over the years and I lost track of the rhythm of day and night, light and darkness.

   No one taught me to speak, I was not allowed to speak when I was given food, drinks and clothes. Not even “Thank you”. I was allowed to bow, I once tried to look at him but my reward was abuse. I am a fast learner, you know, and never tried again.
But he spoke to me. His voice was ugly, causing my heart to become cold, like it was frozen. His sharp pronunciation was like the sharp knife he once forgot and which I hid in the soil in the corner of my cell. He never came to look for it.
He even taught me to read but I wasn't allowed to repeat. He slapped me in the face until I tasted blood. But when he was gone, I covered myself with the old blanket and repeated all the words. Words I found in that dictionary.

   Now you ask me why I never tried to escape....
Escape from a life that was my only life? A life I learned to live with? A life that was predictable as long as I obeyed him? Do you understand that this was my safety? I did not know any other life. I did not know how the world outside my cell looked like. And if there were more of him out there. Or how these people behaved. Were they all the same? If so, how was I going to cope with them?

   Until that gloomy day his interest for me changed. I was no longer the child he fed and spanked. There was another sensation around him, even more smelly than his ugly sweat. And it frightened me to death.
He stayed longer then normal in my cell and sometimes he touched my hair, following it from my head to the tips below my back. I trembled with fear, I did not recognize his sudden interest but my instinct told me it was bad and black. As black as my cell was his soul.
My instinct also told me there was more fear around the corner than I had ever experienced before, a fear I could not explain but which used all my energy.

   I concentrated on my energy, got in touch with the tiny inner of me that I

Photo: © Mark (@128_latimer on Instagram)

found in the dark corners of my heart. I forced myself to believe in escaping from my prison, regardless what I was going to find outside.
I learned to play his game. I also learned his game made him sleepy, less alert. He was the centre of his own pleasure, I was not. So I made a plan and discussed this with my mental I.

We discussed it thoroughly and knew his sleepy minutes afterwards, were the only minutes to fulfil our plan. With the knife, as sharp as his own words.

   I succeeded, the knife caused enough damage to stay ahead of him. Whilst I ran for my life, my heartbeat outvoted his screaming, outvoted the sound of his running feet. 

   Outvoted the sound of a large engine that made the iron track I was following, tremble. Which speed caused a strong wind, stronger then any other power I knew. A wind I could not fight. I did not wish to fight, the wind which pulled me towards the end of my story. I finally reached my deadline.

Word of thanks: the photo of @128_latimer inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use it as an illustration for which I am very grateful. The title of the story was born during our conversation about his photo. Thank you so much Mark!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @128_latimer

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen