Prison Cell (Thursday Prompt 23/8/12)
Parker finds his life to be more like the prison cell in his book than he would like. Could his way out be sitting in the cubicle next to him?
I know it's been a while since the prompt was released but I haven't gotten around to submitting it, what with college and all. Anyway, the prompt was "Prison Cell" and this is what became of it. I find that it's in a voice I don't usually write in but I really like it and I might try to develope it as my own. Tell me what you think.
...I could bang on the bars all day. I do in my mind. I guess some things just don't bubble up to the surface. My rusty tin cup takes different shapes, the thick iron bars pressing in. Perhaps if I ignore them they'll go away.
But no, they stay the same, coated in the same dull fabric as the other three and a half walls. Burlap under my paws, I've only touched them once and refrained since.
It's a funny thing to think that one day I might leave this place. I honestly don't know what I would do without it now. Touch the bark of a tree perhaps? I'd smell the air but it's tainted with smog and dust. Smell the roses, I suppose. But I'll probably just go home and sit on my couch. Law and Order is on around this hour, right? That show is still running, I think. The television hasn't been on in ages. Countless hours being wasted here stapling papers, the metal running the pulp through like swords, I don't know if I'll make it to sixty five. Hell, I don't know if I'll make it to midnight.
Still, I quietly sit here in my prison cell. I'm surrounded by other inmates hoping to make bail. If they let me out into the yard on schedule, I'd be convinced it was a fire drill, not their "strict" schedules glaring at them, screaming to let me see the sun. Wandering from corner to corner, or more accurately rolling, pretending to stay busy. I wouldn't want the warden on my case.
I'll have to...
"Hey Parker, you done with that paperwork I sent down to ya?" My ears go flat. I try not to make the windows minimizing on my screen too obvious.
"U-um... yeah." Boss's ear twitches, "Yup. I was actually just about to fax 'em to ya."
I don't know if he means it, but there's something in the way he sips out of his coffee cup that says he wants to fire me. Eye contact, at this point, is an impossibility.
"You know the new policy on non-work related activities on scheduled time right?" He might as well be tearing up my contract in front of me.
"Of course, boss. I read through it... a lot of times." He glances back at my screen.
"Alright, just making sure. And by the way," my heart stops, "we're over staffed today so you're free to go." A command, not a suggestion. My breath is stuck in my throat. I nod as he walks away. "The Prison," my novel, is back up on my screen.
I look back into the cubicle behind me. Alistair and I exchange a brief grin and thumbs up before I return to my real work.
Alistair has read some of my draft. He says he likes it, but it is just in its draft stage. In saying that, he's probably just trying to get in good with me. He's already told me he wants to take me out on a date. I told him that office relationships are frowned upon. Especially gay office relationships, though there hasn't been a meeting on that yet.
I finish up the last paragraph of what I plan to be the second-to-last chapter as I send the last of the completed paperwork through my fax machine. I hope he chokes on it.
I am convinced that I may never depart this prison cell. Cast iron cages for me and ribs for my heart. I am convince that my heart will never fly free, carrying on its wings a message for my lover and plea of release.
That last line will definitely need some work. I click the save button and stand to leave. I look for Alistair but he's gone on break. There's a piece of paper on the floor with my name on it.
I know you said we couldn't, but if you ever want to, call me. --Alistair
"Hey Parker, you're off my clock right?" I turn. Boss isn't even looking at me. I nod as if it would've made a difference and turn to walk out of the building.
At home I walk past the things in my hall. An antique clock that never holds the right time. A filing cabinet with every paper I've ever gotten since college organized by date, subject, and then alphabetically. Finally my eyes drift to the spirits pantry. Only imported beverages. My money's got to go towards something, might as well be getting fucked up like a gentleman.
The glass of French port is sweet and bitter in my mouth, though at this point I've had too many glasses to notice the bouquet. Or that the sun hasn't set.
Whether I'd like it to or not, The Prison continues to write out in my head.
Day to day the same: work, sleep, work, sleep. My schedule has me in a chokehold fending off what it sees as monsters and villains but I see as friends. Even when I get a waft of fresh air from the one by one hole in the wall, sea salt, sand and sun, it fails to tame my yearning. I've been inside this cement and iron box for all my years I realize. When I walked like a free man, I still carried it with me. Patterns, appointments, habitual shutting out of the greater picture. It's here and now. It was and always will be. This is my world now. It has always been my world.
I open my eyes. The sun is just peaking over the mountains and rocks are in my brain. I probably don't work for at least another three hours. Maybe I won't go in today. They don't need me. Would they even notice? They have a hundred other employees to sign paperwork without reading it. Of course, that's what I think every day as I shower, get dressed, get stuck in traffic, and walk in the building.
Maybe today will be different. But probably not.
Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get out of this prison cell.
Then I remember Alistair's number in my pocket. I open my phone and start dialing.
Comments, suggestions, and critiques are all welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading!