You never hear about a sportsman losing his sense of smell in a
tragic accident, and for good reason; in order for the universe to
teach excruciating lessons that we are unable to apply in later life,
the sportsman must lose his legs, the philosopher his mind, the
painter his eyes, the musician his ears, the chef his tongue. My
lesson? I have lost my freedom, and found myself in this strange
prison, where the trickiest adjustment, other than getting used to
not having anything in my pockets and being treated like a dog
that pissed in a sacred temple, is the boredom. I can handle the
enthusiastic brutality of the guards, the wasted erections, even the
suffocating heat. (Apparently airconditioning offends society’s notion
of punishment – as if just by being a little cool we are getting away
with murder.) But what can I do here to kill time? Fall in love?
There’s a female guard whose stare of indifference is alluring, but
I’ve never been good at chasing women – I always take no for answer.
Sleep all day? When my eyes are closed I see the menacing face
that’s haunted me my whole life. Meditate? After everything that’s
happened, I know the mind isn’t worth the membrane it’s printed
on. There are no distractions here – not enough, anyway – to avoid
a fraction of catastrophic introspection. Neither can I beat back the memories
with a stick.
All that remains is to go insane; easy in a theatre where the
apocalypse is performed every other week. Last night was a particularly
stellar show: I had almost fallen asleep when the building started
shaking and a hundred angry voices shouted as one. I stiffened. A riot,
yet another ill-conceived revolution. It hadn’t been going two minutes
when my door was kicked open and a tall figure entered, wearing
a smile that seemed merely ornamental.
‘Your mattress. I need,’ he said.
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘We set fire to all mattress,’ he boasted, thumbs up, as if this
gesture were the jewel in the crown of human achievement.
‘So what am I supposed to sleep on? The floor?’
He shrugged and started speaking in a language I didn’t
understand. There were odd-shaped bulges in his neck; clearly
something terrible was taking place underneath his skin. The
people here are all in a bad way and their clinging misfortunes
have physically misshaped them. Mine have too; my face looks
like a withered grape, my body the vine.
I waved the prisoner away and continued listening to the routine
chaos of the mob. That’s when I had the idea that I could pass the
time by writing my story. Of course, I’d have to scribble it secretly,
crouched behind the door, and only at night, and then hide it in
the damp space between the toilet and the wall and hope my jailers
aren’t the type to get down on their hands and knees. I’d settled
on this plan when the riot finally took the lights out. I sat on my
bed and became mesmerised by the glow from burning mattresses
illuminating the corridor, only to be interrupted by two grim,
unshaven inmates who strode into my cell and stared at me as if
I were a mountain view.
‘Are you the one who won’t give up his mattress?’ the taller of
the two growled, looking like he’d woken up with the same hangover
three years running.
I said that I was.
‘Step aside.’
‘It’s just that I was about to have a lie-down,’ I protested. Both
prisoners let out deep, unsettling laughs that sounded like the tearing
of denim. The taller one pushed me aside and yanked the mattress from
my bed while the other stood as if frozen and waiting to thaw. There
are certain things I’ll risk my neck for, but a lumpy mattress isn’t one
of them. Holding it between them, the prisoners paused at the door.
‘Coming?’ the shorter prisoner asked me.
‘What for?’
‘It’s your mattress,’ he said plainly. ‘It is your right to be one
who sets on fire.’
I groaned. Man and his codes! Even in a lawless inferno,
man has to give himself some honour, he’s so desperate to separate
himself from the beasts.
‘I’ll pass.’
‘As you like,’ he said, a little disappointed. He muttered something
in a foreign tongue to his cohort, who laughed as they left.
It’s always something here – if there isn’t a riot, then someone’s
usually trying to escape. The wasted effort helps me see the positives of
imprisonment. Unlike those pulling their hair out in good society, here
we don’t have to feel ashamed of our day-to-day unhappiness. Here
we have someone visible to blame – someone wearing shiny boots.
That’s why, on consideration, freedom leaves me cold. Because out
there in the real world, freedom means you have to admit authorship,
even when your story turns out to be a stinker.