First rays of dawn flickered in, making a projection on the rough brick wall. Dust particles danced along, forming patterns in the air. Chill of the night slowly dying out.. sounds of a broom brushing against the hard grounds at regular intervals.. stomping of a few boots.. dragging of metal scraps.. a distant dry cough and finally a shrill siren rotating around the high walls adding to the morning music, announcing the start of another day.
Deep down, in the solitary prison cell.. the prisoner wakes up to a dark morning. The frozen concrete lying underneath sends shivers down the spine, flinging him into consciousness. Last night was dreamless, devoid of any emotions, almost empty. Sitting up, he looks above, at the mellow lights coming through the tiny window. ‘The fog must be still thick’ he thinks to himself. Glancing at the projection on the wall, he locates a parked tractor.. changing into some meaningless scribbles.. taking the shape of a bird he never knew of.. vanishing into large eclipses and clearing out into the shadow of permanent bars. Time has not moved since.
Winters have always been the best of all seasons. As a child he loved loitering in the farm when it was covered with thick fog, checking on the animals in the barn, occasionally taking his sister to his hideout, setting the garbage on fire.. pilling up dry leaves and stealing apples from the neighbor’s farms.. and then there was also the growing violence, a disturbed existence, a desire to break free, an emergency call and a few accidents. Winters always reminded him of the past. The choke at the bottom of his throat grew fierce, hunger burning his stomach. Loneliness striking again. The window keeps sketching patterns on the wall. Picking up a few of his sole companions, neatly folded and kept under the pillow, bleak memories, torn at the folds and burnt at the edges, he brushes his hands through them. They still smell colours. Its dark to see, but he needs no light. He knows it too well, its been rehearsed everyday, almost every alternate hour, lest its lost.
The slowly fading past threatens him, stripping him off his only belongings, to a future which he doesn’t know and can’t predict. He weeps aloud. He calms himself. He talks it out with him. He plans in his head. He scribbles the routes. He captures patterns. He chases the light. He despises the freedom and he craves for it.. He walks ahead towards the window, towards the rugged brick wall and slowly into the blackout.
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