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.
...

The puddle

[I wrote this article about 1 year ago, but never got to actually publish it. The recently published post of a friend of mine inspired me to edit it and finally post it.]

After a few minutes, he woke up with a great pain in his chest. With a terrible headache, he tried to figure out where the hell he was, but couldn't remember even the slightest thing. His numb and blank mind wouldn't help him at all.
He was lying on the floor of some odd room. It's oddness came from it's simplicity: completely empty. Just a dim lightbulb was hanging from the ceiling while the floor was covered by a thick carpet of dust. With each breath, the boy brought up a small dust cloud that was blurrying even more his eyes. As he began to check out the weird chamber he had found himself in, he noticed the rusty door on one of the walls that were imprisoning him.
A sudden cry of dispair was heard from behind the door. It was the voice of a young woman. He knew that voice, but he was unable to remember to whom it belonged. A strange feeling made out of some sort of deep fear and pitty for the woman that seemed to be beyond the door sent shivers down his already paralised spine. He knew he had to open it and try to remove the shroud that kept his mind so numb. He got up and headed towards the door. Several cries had been heard till the moment he reached the cold door knob.
"No! Please, don't hurt me! Why are you doing this?"
The door cracked open, revealing the disfigured face of a woman. Her figure was malformed by pain and terror, covered by bruises and her own blood.
He slammed the door open, trying to grab her, but cold steel bars kept her out of reach. Suddenly, his memory just clicked. It all came back to him. He recognised the woman, even though she was twitching, curling and screaming as if she were burnt alive. A dark shadow flew right past him and into her room.
"No! Stay away from her! Leave her alone!" he cried.
In a moment's notice, the specter enveloped her with it's black wings. She dissapeared. There was nothing left in her room, except for a dark-red puddle.
He felt a warm liquid pouring down his right hand. It smelt blood. He had no cuts. Nor bruises. It was hers.
Choked by guilt, the boy fainted, falling once more...

Snowflakes

He was just standing there, by the window. Those little Snowflakes amazed him with their funny dance through the cold, thin air. Everyone of them had a beauty of their own, everyone of them had their own rithm. How could they be so calm when they somehow dance to their own death? How could they float so easily to the place where they will melt someday?
He was just staring at the snow's blinding whiteness, looking at nothing. He could hear everything that was going outside: every little Snowflake was landing with a silent screech, sliding it's way to his own equilibrium point, even though he would only remain trapped there, having no where else to go. Every little bird had it's beautiful song, calling out the sun. Every leaf had a unique rustle (n.a. rustle=foşnet). Every drop had it's own splash.
He couldn't hear anything else. He didn't want to. This was the only way he could regenerate every bit of him. And he awfully needed that. Because he was broken. He didn't want to talk to anybody, just to himself. He needed to mend his ripped soul. Nature helped him a lot just by being in front of him.
The boy was so concentrated on the Snowflakes' dance he didn't feel her sudden embrace. Her skin didn't feel so soft and loving as it used to be. A shiver came down on his spine at her touch, but he didn't move. Her cold fingertips weren't as he remembered. He shook his head struggling to forget everything that had happened, everything he had heard and he had seen.
-What's the matter, dear? she asked.
He didn't answer. How could she play so inocent? His lips couldn't move just as they were glued and his throat was all dried out.
-Please, talk to me..did I do something wrong? she insisted.
-No, i just need some time off, that's all...
-You sure?
-Yes.
-Ok, i'll wait for you at the party then. See you inside.
He noded. But he was stuck to that window, just watching the small, careless Snowflakes. He didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to look at her anymore. All that he wanted was to forget everything and move on, just as the Snowflakes did.

...with our hearts burnt and our souls ripped, we have nothing else to do, but to move on...