sâmbătă, 5 octombrie 2013

The Free Prisoner

The hallway was narrow and empty. On each side, there were rusty doors, barely hanging on their broken hinges. The air was still. And so was everything. The silence was deafening and the only sound was of death. No guards. No people. No life. No soul.

Not even His. Though He was still there, in the third cell on the right. The cold, damp walls of His room were covered in dust and mold. At first you couldn't see Him, but His silent sighs would stand out of the the pitch black air. He was just skin and bones. If He was anything. Lying on the floor, staring across the room, His skeleton was leaning against the hard, clammy bricks that were once blood red. His pale skin was nothing more but a white thin tin foil that tightly enveloped His cartilages. Dry and creased, this old membrane had plenty of dark red cuts and bruises. Long and short, deep and superficial, the marks of His beatings covered all of His body.

He wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing. Yet He was there. Somewhere, inside His corpse. Once in a while, His lips were moving, faking a mumble. A mumble that he could not speak, nor hear.

His eyes were staring dead ahead, as if He would expect to see something, as if He would hope something to happen. But darkness pecked his eyes out.

The iron shackles that held him prisoner for plenty of years were broken beside him. On His forearms, one could clearly see the wide bruises He got as punishment for His former struggles. Now, He was still and broken.

Across His body, the brick wall was torn down. A faint ray of light was creeping through the fallen bricks. The light was almost touching his feet, but every time it got closer, the ray was running back as if scared by the horrors the prison once contained. The door to his cell was unlocked. Wide open.

He was Free. He was Paralyzed. He was Blind. He was Deaf. He was Mute. He was the Prisoner.

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