Prison Walls

Locked up tight, concrete walls surround me. A thimble-sized sink attached to the wall drips water through the night. I lie awake from the plopping droplets, pierced by the thin lumpy mattress at my back. And the bars. The bars are as thick as the legs of my child, as strong as his stubborn will. My pen is my chisel. I will escape this prison.

I am writing my way out of my broken heart today. Each word breathes for me, a shuddering gulp after the stale prison air. Each sentence pushes the walls back bit by bit. Like a bucket brigade, my pen carries word upon word upon word to douse the fire of my sadness. That hot wall of orange rushes toward me. But sentences coil and spring to my aid.

I am writing my way out. The pen chisels and the concrete dust falls away. A painstaking task, I work feverishly through the night and open a small hole in the concrete fortress. Every night is the same. These words will free me. I write on.

The tunnel forms slowly. The dust piles at my feet. I hide it carefully between lumps in the mattress and the remains of dinner. No one must know my plan. I go on as if nothing at all has changed.

But inside this tunnel, a new life emerges. The rhythm of the chisel softens the concrete and it peels away more easily somehow. I can see a pinprick of light up ahead. My chisel is feverish as the words flow more quickly.

More light streams in; I can almost taste sweet freedom. I raise the chisel once more and to my horror, hear the unmistakable clang of the prison bars behind me. I have been discovered.

Once more I lie upon this mattress, listening to the dripping water beside me. It beats a rhythm I cannot feel. The walls close in, my pen falls silent. And my heart is locked up tightly once again.