The Prisoner: A Short Story

It is 4:30 PM on a Wednesday. I am walking home from school and it is already dark because it is winter. I stayed after school for a meeting of my school’s newspaper staff for an hour, which is why I am leaving at 4:30 and not 3:30, the time at which school actually ends. I frown as I recall that I did not win the short story contest I entered. Not even so much as an honorable mention. It is a matter which for some reason greatly upsets me and dampens my mood even more than my mark on the last math test. I should not be put off by failure, I know, but it isn’t just one failure. It’s failure after failure, which is why I feel so discouraged like I can’t do anything right. The weather is making me feel even more miserable and the icy wind is so strong and cold it feels like it will cut into my skin. It even makes a howling sound as it blows past my ears, which are so numb I can no longer feel them. The thoughts that race through my head are dull and amorphous. It is like my mind can’t even think in words, just in ugly, grey blobs that represent failure and self-hatred and the fear of uncertainty. I normally think in words, sentences and paragraphs. It may have something to do with being a writer. But when I am distressed, like right now, my thoughts are tangled threads and there is no way to sort them out. It isn’t just about the damn story contest. It is the world. People. Everything. I take a path which winds through a park and I walk so cautiously for fear of slipping on ice that it takes me about half an hour longer than usual to get home. My driveway eventually comes in sight and I breathe a sigh of relief. My breath materializes in front of me like a cloud. I take out my keys from my backpack. The house is just as dark and gloomy as the outside world. I open the door and stomp my boots on a mat, fumbling for the light switch as I do. I still vaguely remember the country of my birth at times though the memory is fuzzy as a dream. I turn on the lights and hang my coat, thinking of how that land was much warmer. But there is no point in thinking about it, because I live in a nameless Canadian suburb now. And my parents have made it clear that we are here to stay. And perhaps that is for the better, for I really do not have any idea of any other place and I would not fit in there. My mother will not be home soon. Nor will my father. They are both working. They are not poor, nor are they rich. They are the most unremarkable people. I realize that I should start my homework. But I walk in circles. Somehow I end up sprawled on the couch with candy wrappers strewn about the floor when I become faintly aware of the sound of the front door opening and a person entering. And somehow the sound of the footsteps tell me that it is my mother. I hear her stomping her boots, releasing a sigh, and unzipping her jacket. I am too dazed to stir, too tired to get up. I think about quickly getting my biology textbook out of my backpack and pretending to read it, so that it would appear to my mother that I am studying and that I was studying the whole time I was alone. But I am too tired to execute this plan, too tired to create this illusion. I appear to be having a good time, resting here on the couch, but I’m not. I’m not able to enjoy this moment because the guilt is gnawing at my insides. I always hate myself for procrastinating yet I still find it impossible to quit. Why? Because I never have any energy. I never feel awake enough to do anything. I’m always tired, and I lack motivation. I am worried about the world, and I don’t see any future for myself anyway. I’m not smart, I’m not original. I don’t know how to talk to people without them thinking I’m weird. I lack motivation because I feel so certain that I won’t succeed. It isn’t long before my mother starts yelling, like I knew she would as soon as she sees me. One look at me tells me everything she needs to know, and she knows I haven’t started my homework. Her shrill voice criticizes every aspect of my existence. My weight, my grades and my laziness. I mumble an insincere apology to her. On some days, I get angry. I break things. I yell at her. I cry, loud and without abandon. But today I am just numb, because of how this happens every day. Life is without colour. Food is without flavour and the sound of my mother’s voice is just a noise, a disruption of my thoughts. I barely even hear her rant. It feels like trying to listen to a conversation from under water. My ears can never handle the noise she makes, so they’ve learned to tune it out. She is like me, in that once something upsets her it does not stop bothering her for a few hours, maybe even the whole day. She capitulates. The yelling stops. But she still wears a permanent frown like a mask, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying out of what she tells me is concern for me but what I believe to be harsh criticism for not living up to her standards. I am an only child, and yet I also feel like a disappointment to my own parents. A tear runs down my cheek. I brush it away, and muffle the cries with my cushion so that there is no risk that my mother will hear me cry. I am forbidden to cry under this roof. My father comes home and takes no notice of me. I do not know if he does this intentionally or without meaning to ignore me. He makes himself a cup of tea and ascends the stairs. I think my mother is still asleep, but then I realize she is not, or that she is a very light sleeper. She starts complaining about me to my father as soon as she recognizes the sound of his footsteps. A fresh argument stirs and they are both yelling in my mother tongue, in which every word sounds harsh and cuts deep. I can not make sense of what exactly they are arguing about but I know it has to do with me, for my name comes up in every sentence. It is an ugly and distinct word so different from the sounds of our language. They blame each other for the way that I am. Who raised me wrong, who gave me the wrong genes. Every day is the same and I have to fall asleep crying softly, trying my best to tune out their voices. And I know the next day will be the same. I will go to school, stay as long as I can after school and go to after school activities to avoid going home, and then regret that I must come home at all. And there is no hope of it changing. It is the next day. I thought I would not be able to sleep last night but it turns out that I eventually did. The reason why I am up earlier than usual is because I figured I’d get to school a bit earlier than normal and try to get some work done before class starts. I finish eating as soon as possible and get in my coat and boots. Then I run out the door as fast as I can. I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as I escape. I think I will be productive today to make up for the previous day. I can  read a chapter of my biology textbook before school starts. Then perhaps at lunch, when I will have some more free time, I will do some math questions. I will start my homework as soon as I get home and work on it until I fall asleep. These goals sound totally realistic to me right now. The morning is cool and crisp. My cheeks turn red. The path I take to school goes through a park with tall trees. Their gnarled branches are barren and grey, twisting towards the sky. I wonder if Hell has trees that look like this, wicked and menacing. Yet it is still nice to be in nature. It beats being at home. The snow banks sparkle, as if there is golden glitter sprinkled on them. That's what happens when the sunlight hits the snow. The effect is almost blinding. When I walk through nature I'm so happy that it feels like I'm in a trance. I have the sudden desire to take off my heavy backpack and run off, to stray off the path. But I realize I wouldn’t be able to survive on my own. School comes in sight. I can see the parking lot. I enter. The hallways inside the school are mostly empty. The rows of lockers shiny and pristine. I have a seat on a bench. But my hands are still cold from my walk in the outside world. I'm wearing gloves. Looks like they're too thin, no good. I don't want to take my hands out from my pocket even though I must. So I just sit there. A wave of irritation comes over me. I feel like I've forgotten something. The unpleasant feeling interrupts my early-morning contentment. Oh yes, I remember. I am supposed to be reading my biology textbook right now. But I'd rather not. My hands are too cold and I don’t think I can focus right now. Perhaps during lunch I can read it. I can split my lunch period in half. Half can be for biology. And half for math. I won't eat food. Even if I'm hungry, I won't give into the temptation. Because there is so much to do. I can't succumb to my desires. I walk around in the hallway for a bit. Some teachers see me and smile. Some students say good morning to me and they say my name. I don't like my name, but I also don't know what name I'd rather have. A colourful poster on the wall catches my eye. It says there will be a poetry open mic in the cafeteria. The date is written on it. I check my phone because I do not know what the date is today because I never know and I realize that the open mic is today! But I do not have any pieces that are worthy of being performed. At lunch I may be able to write something.  The bell rings and the sound is loud and piercing. It is time to get to class. I sit down in the back of the class for math. I hate math. The teacher is saying something about sinusoidal functions that I can’t be bothered about. I start dozing off. No, I need to snap myself back to the present moment. I need to take notes and listen and try to make sense of as much as I can so I can ask about it later. And when it’s time for lunch I’ll be able to do my math homework and also write the poem for the open mic. I open my math notebook and unzip my pencil case. I take out a very sharp pencil. Most people in my class use pens or lead pencils, I prefer the traditional pencil with an eraser on the back. And I like sharpening them until they can be dangerous. But it seems like a waste to use this pencil for doing math, which I would rather use dull pencils for. My mind wanders off. I don’t even know I got to this, but somehow my page is all covered with words now. None of them have anything to do with math. I am writing a poem. I cross out the stanzas I don’t like and rewrite them over and over again until I’m satisfied with the exact wording. I should write a final copy of this poem on a different page, I decide. I take out a pretty purple gel pen. The ink is sparkly. I write the final copy in as neat handwriting as I can manage, though if I ask someone else I bet they would say it is not the greatest. I am concentrating intensely. I blow on the ink to let it dry and settle, then I look upon it in satisfaction. I feel someone’s presence behind me. It is my math teacher. She asks me what I’m doing. I quickly shut my notebook and put it away. She tells me if I keep this up, she will have to call my parents. But all I care about in this class is passing. As long as I pass, that’s all that matters. I just can’t be bothered to do more. I pack up for my next class, which is biology. We have a test and the questions make my head hurt. I didn’t study this morning or the night before, and I can’t recall anything I read before that. Why would I care about what happens inside the organelles of cells? The test goes by in a blur. After class, I hear a group of people from my class discussing the answers. But I have already forgotten the questions. So my day hasn’t been off to a very productive start, but I can always redeem myself at lunch. The lunch period bell rings. Instead of going to the cafeteria, I head over to the library. It’s time to get to work. But a sudden wave of sadness comes over me for reasons I do not understand and as I am walking to the library I change my course and my feet take me to the bathroom instead. The whole bathroom happens to be empty. I get in a stall, shut the door, lean against the closed door and start crying. I do not know where these tears are coming from. Someone’s coming. The footsteps are coming closer. So I have to force myself to stop. My thoughts are doing that thing again when they’re all jumbled up and don’t make sense. They refer to me as you. I wonder why they do that when they’re my thoughts and they can just refer to me as I. You are a failure, a loser, dumb, stupid, ugly. You can’t go a day without procrastinating on your work. You are in a bathroom crying. You will never amount to anything. And it continues on saying all kinds of horrible things to me. I would never say these things to another human being. No one deserves to feel this bad about themself unless they hurt someone else. My thoughts aren’t kind to me. I hate myself. I’m no longer sad. Now my mood is transitioning into being annoyed and angry. I am like an irritable child. I know what I really need is sleep. I need a warm bed. But the lunch period is almost over, and I have two more classes afterwards, and then I have that poetry open mic to go to. It will be hours before I can actually rest. And I’m mad there are no rooms in the school where you can lounge on mattresses for free. Why didn’t anyone think about that? It’s as if prisons and schools are designed by the same people. The rest of the day’s classes go by in a blur because I can barely stay awake. It is as if I am sleepwalking through life. I see faces but I don’t recognize them. I see words being written but I can’t read them. Words being spoken but I can’t understand them. And I feel so weak. My stomach growls. I only skipped one meal. Why is giving me such a hard time? Oh well, the day is still young. There will be time after school to get work done at home. The final bell rings. I am the last one to get up and leave the room only because I am lazy. But then I have to remember when I’m supposed to be after school and shoot up from my chair once everyone has left. The open mic! I take out my math notebook and tear out the sheet of paper with my poem on it. I read it again. That’s weird. It’s not as good as I remember it being. In fact, it feels like trash to me now. Part of me wants to crumple up the paper, but another part of me thinks ruining a smooth piece of paper with nice purple handwriting on it is a sin. I decide to fold the paper, smaller and smaller and smaller. Now I am holding it in my sweaty hand and squeezing it. I hear some people talking in the hallway and emerge from the classroom. They are talking about the open mic. They go there, so I follow. There are not that many people at the event. A modest audience. And most of the people who came to watch also came to perform. I do not have stage fright, so I volunteer to go first. No one there knows me, so I have to introduce myself by my name, which I hate doing. I do not wish to be known. I just want to present my poem. I do not do much of a preamble like many performers do. The paper in my sweaty hand is crumpled. I don't know how it got this way. The moisture from my hand made the ink bleed. But it is still legible. A few people start to whisper when they see me awkwardly get on stage and unfold the crinkled paper. Maybe I am only imagining that they are talking about me. They could be talking about something else. Or maybe they are talking about me in a positive way, though that seems unlikely. Maybe they think the crumpled texture of the paper in my hand is a deliberate artistic choice and are appreciating it. I do not hesitate further. I read my poem in a voice that is sufficiently loud and clear, though it is very boring and monotonous. I rush the last stanza so that it can be over. It goes like this:

If you can never leave, even a palace becomes a prison,

Dear moments are wasted in isolation,

If the walls are thin, even whispers will carry,

The halls will hold memory,

And time will slip through the cracks of your fingers like sand

If you are the only one in the world, your thoughts will never be secrets

You are not at home, you are in a cage 

And the rules of polite society are your chains

Even if you adjust to the sickening routine,

Your spirit can not bare another day

It has never witnessed a torture so cruel

And to be condemned to the same mundane cycle

Is more than it can endure

You have traded away your freedom for stability 

And now love is something you only read about in fairy tales

And you will never know courage 

And while you waste away in glamorous captivity, 

The only adventures you’ll be having will be in your dreams 

But why can’t your conscience take a stand?

And make your captors suffer the same,

Make them grovel until they feel the guilt and shame,

Deprive their lives of meaning until they are empty shells,

So that you don’t have to be the only one going through this hell, 

When you make them pay 

It will be justice not revenge 

If you can never leave, even a palace becomes a prison

And it will not be murder because 

In your mind, you no longer believe them to be human

 And then I go sit down in the audience. The teacher asks who wants to go next, and one by one all the performers go. Each one is brilliant. The one about having an eating disorder makes me almost wish I could hug the performer, because it evokes so much emotion. There are stories about break-ups and abusive relationships that almost move me to tears. When I hear someone speak of injustice I sit quietly. But only because I am deep in thought, and so busy trying to hold on to each word. I clap and cheer after each performance is over. I think I cheer the loudest out of everyone in the room. Once the event is over, I help clean up the area and linger behind to try chatting with other people about the performances. But for some reason, it appears no one wants to talk to me. Finally someone approaches me, and he attempts to strike up a conversation with me so I say so and so’s poem was really amazing but he ignores my comments and talks about my poem. I almost forgot I even presented anything, and I wish I could just forget. He says I really need to write about personal experiences, or else my poetry will never be relatable to anyone. He also said I should be consistent with rhymes and the number of syllables per line. Then he walks off. I almost never get angry at another person. I only get angry at myself or at my parents once in a while. But this time I am angry. I am fuming with rage. Though of course, I do not show it. It was fair enough if he didn’t like non-rhyming poems or irregular metres, those are up to an individual’s taste. But the part about personal experiences and making it relatable to an audience made me angrier than I’ve ever felt. Mostly because I felt like I had written about my personal experiences. The emotions I expressed about feeling trapped in the poem were real to me. How could anyone accuse me of exaggerating, lying or not being specific enough when they don’t even know what my experiences are? It was authentic, yet to everyone else it sounded like an empty cliche. I tried not to think about it just like I tried not to think about how I didn’t win the last short story contest I entered. All you can do is keep trying, learn from others if you can, and then hope that your writing will get better and that someone will like it. I get home and I am sure you can guess that I don’t do any homework. I feel so sick that I am having trouble standing. I lie down. My parents do not criticize me much today, because they are actually concerned about my health. I shiver. I feel like there is a huge weight on my chest or inside my stomach. My mouth feels very dry and I have a terrible headache. My mom tells me that I shouldn’t go to school the next day. But I cry out in protest with the little strength I have left. I would hate to be isolated at home. That would mean I have to be with my thoughts for the whole day. And that would mean I would feel guilty about not doing my homework. And I would miss important things at school. Somehow my body recovers in a few hours out of what seems to be pure determined will from my mind. I have to go to school. I tell my mom and she is surprised that I am insisting so strongly on it. I sound like my life depends on it. I wasn’t sick. I tried to explain to my mom that what happened to me wasn’t illness at all but stress. The effects of stress can be like symptoms of an illness. But she doesn’t really get it and says I have nothing to be stressed about, I probably just don’t drink enough water. The next morning at breakfast she observes that I appear perfectly normal. The colour came back to my cheeks and I’m no longer as pale as I seemed the night before. She allows me to go to school. I am overjoyed. I head to school, walking the whole way as usual instead of taking the bus because I love my route to school and I love being in nature. But as soon as I get to first period math, I start getting stressed again as soon as I hear the teacher start talking. I try very hard to suppress it because I don’t want to have to rush to the bathroom to puke or anything like that. I glance at the clock to see how long it will be before the period ends, because it feels like it is taking forever. But I hear my name and I realize that I am being called down to the principal's office for something. That’s weird, I think. A few of the other students give me a suspicious glance because their natural assumption is that I must be in trouble for something. The math teacher interrupts her lesson for a few seconds and nods to me to let me know that I can go. She also says that it is unlikely I’m in trouble. The administration probably just wants to ask me about something. It could be that my parents forgot to pay some kind of fee and they just wanted to remind me to let them know. Whatever it is, even if I am in trouble, it is better than sitting in math class. So I go. The principle redirects me to the guidance counsellor’s office and the guidance counsellor sits me down. She takes her time getting to the point of the meeting and says a number of teachers and students have noticed that I’m growing distant and displaying signs of depression. I laugh and tell her there’s no reason to be concerned. Maybe I am depressed, but then, everyone in this school is depressed. So it must be a normal thing. People who aren’t depressed are the weird ones who she should be worried about. It’s the last year of high school so of course people are panicking and not feeling so good about themselves. They are all worried about their future and if they will get into university. I look around her office a little bit. Pride flags, pins and stickers with pronouns written on them, houseplants, books about being inclusive to students from other cultures, students with disabilities, and motivational posters. Clearly she was trying to create an environment where people could feel safe. And I really appreciate her effort, I just don’t think I need it. She is wasting her time with me and should be helping another student. Maybe an LGBT student or a student from a lower income family. Or a student from an ethnic minority, since these are all groups who are at higher risk of feeling depressed because society is so evil to them. But then I remember that I am LGBT and from an ethnic minority myself. Well, still. I have it way better than a lot of other people. I realize she is trying to talk to me but I am very deep in thought. She is trying to tell me about some mental health hotline I can call that is for students who immigrated from a different country because she knows that is my particular situation. No, I really don’t need that. Those resources are for people who have it worse than me. My life is easy. I am sad all the time but that is because I hate myself, not because I hate my life. There is a difference. I don’t need people to tell me reassuring things. I need to be harder on myself until it either breaks me or forces me to change into a better person. I don’t want to run out of the office because that would be rude. But I slowly get up and say that I have a class to get to and then walk away before she can say anything more. I decide to actually eat something today for lunch, because my stomach is making noises. I need something to do while eating, so I do a Google search for more writing contests I can enter in. Why not? My only rule is that I don’t enter in ones that have an entrance fee. Because that would make me lose way too much money, considering I do not have a track record of winning anything that would help me make up for the loss. Contests or events like that open mic help give me deadlines and help me write with an audience in mind. It speeds up the process of writing and helps me stay focused. Otherwise, I would probably start writing a ridiculous novel and never finish it. I find one looking for fantasy and sci-fi stories in particular. Cool, I thought. I’ll get started soon. It is kind of hard to come up with a good idea for it. But then I get an idea, though it is not for the short story. It is for something else. The idea is so crazy but it has the potential to change my life. I can’t wait to go home and tell my parents. The worst that can happen is that they will say no and we will get into a prolonged argument and it will ruin my night. But that happens to me at least once a week anyway so I am prepared to deal with it. The best case scenario makes it worth the risk. As I walk home, I think of my guidance counselor’s words. My parents had it much harder than I do. They grew up in a third world country. That’s why they don’t understand when I complain about anything. Their life was actually hard. When I tell them how I feel, I will have to do so in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m complaining. They worked hard in school to get good grades, get good jobs and be able to move to Canada so their child could have a better life. What school subject was most useful to them? Probably math and the sciences, because those were what landed them the highest paying careers. But a lot of it also depended on learning English. All the universities in their country taught in English even though it wasn’t the language of the people. In history class we talk about colonialism and its legacy. But this is only vaguely related to the idea I have in mind. It is really quite simple. I eat a large, healthy meal and smile throughout it. My parents think it is unusual that I look so happy. I finally tell them my idea. I tell them I want to be a writer. When it is time to apply to university, I will apply for a humanities program. Probably English or comparative literature. I also add that I am dropping biology. I know that I am allowed to do this as per the school rules and it won’t show up on my transcript. This will give me more time to focus on improving my math mark. My dad looks horrified. He never thought his child would put forth such an absurd proposition. Yet he hears me defend it quite logically. My grades in the sciences and in math are below average. It would be terrible for the world if someone like me were to somehow study those subjects or try finding work in related fields. My grades in everything else are above average. But I try to stay humble because I know that I do not have any outstanding literary talent. But I know that it is an area that I can actually improve in and grow in. My parents say there is no way I will find work in this kind of economy. But I simply say there is no way anyone can, really, unless they are extremely lucky. I just don’t want to be depressed for the next four years pretending to be someone I’m not like I had to throughout high school. After that, we’ll see what will happen. They finally agreed, but mostly because they knew it was pointless to try to stop me when I had already made up my mind. So just think of this, an immigrant from a country who suffered greatly under British colonization but then later gained its independence moves to Canada. I have family who personally suffered because of the vestiges of colonialism. And then, I did the most ridiculous thing. I decided to be a writer in the language of the colonizer. It is as if I am betraying my own culture and people. But anything else would have been a decision made for financial stability and not for passion. Now I don’t flinch whenever I hear my own name. I don’t get scared of looking at myself in the mirror. It is what it is. I’m not smart. I’m not original. And it’s okay, because at least I am not pretending to be something that I’m not.