A Game Called Loneliness

A Game called Loneliness The adventure started back in the year 2004. It was the year when misfortune struck, locking me up in a jail in the south of France. Back in the olden days, the landlady guillotine had managed to put fear in the locals’ hearts and souls throughout the whole of the land. And it was its evil blood-thirsty blade, that made roll off the heads of the whole royal family whose reign had been established under divine will and blessing, and together with them off came the heads of all those who shared their ideals of a new world. Thus, on a spring day of that year the sun was tenderly caressing the whole of nature from above: its gentle touch stirring back to life’s bitter roots, whilst partaking in the green of the young pods… I was lying down with my eyes closed in the cold dark cell. I could only imagine the unspoken beauty of nature displayed at that time of the year. I was trying to take my day-nap within the four concrete walls solidly stuck in the iron-cast frame of the building, whose painful sighs I could always hear after midnight. It was grieving at the sight of the slow destruction that Rust was causing, to the delight of Damp, the old loyal hunch-man of suffering. In fact, everything around there seemed eager to satisfy Suffering, whose blue-lipped kiss sealed the tragic faith of all those who filled up that cursed place. I was sleeping a half-sleep haunted by all sorts of thoughts and half-dreams: I could easily imagine, for instance, what it must feel like lying dead in a coffin because my cold unwelcoming cell was just that. All of a sudden, a noise coming from nearby made me jump. I opened my eyes still blurred with nudging thoughts. I was gazing around trying to work out what it was, like a wild vulture narrowing down on its pray. And fancy that as a sight: a rat, all tangled in a white silk thread, his ears shredded and full of old scars, standing on the table right next to my bed, starved to the bone. He was wearily and desperately munching at an old bread crust left forgotten in a corner of the table. I didn’t react in any way. I thought he was very brave since my presence didn’t bother him at all. I kept still, looking at him from one side, wondering how he got all the way up there and where he came from. He was holding the crust between his fore-paws, nibbling it fast. Hunger must have put in him the devil-dare. We, people, do exactly the same when our bellies are empty: we try to fill them up quickly, no matter what. And that’s why sometimes we take mad risks carrying out downright mean things, without even considering the consequences. I was trying to guess how old the Rat was. His scars spoke volumes about him: where and what he had been through. He most certainly had life experience in plenty, or at least enough of it since, on that spring day, he had the freedom to go anywhere he wanted, yet he chose to come looking for food in a prison cell. While watching him mesmerised, another noise, a familiar one this time, caught my ear. Two doves flew down and sat on the outside sill of my cell window. They were watching me closely, turning on me one eye at a time. Softly, as if not to wake me up, they were gurgling their nasal unmusical tune which I was looking forward to every day. It was their way of letting me know that they had arrived and were waiting for me to come around from my restless sleep, the slumber I was aimlessly wandering through every day, checking out the dark pits in search of the odd soothing dream that would have remained loyal to me. Yet, all of those dreams had departed from me because of the despicable place I found myself in. I was looking for a dream that would give me hope and keep me going when I woke up. A dream that would drop in my ear the whisper of endless freedom waiting for me outside, thus giving me the strength to revive my yearning feelings, long overdue to a touch of tender sunshine. The doves were old friends of mine; by that time, they had become used to calling in and having some bread crumbs to eat every day after I woke up. I would often ask them: ”What’s the colour of the freedom out there?” The doves would spread their wings wide to show me dark grey dirty feathers. They meant by that: dark grey was the colour of freedom. ”But… how can that be?” I’d ask surprised. ”Has all the water on earth gone dry?” They’d fold their wings on their backs shaking their heads, only to whisper sadly: ”No, it hasn’t gone dry. But we cannot get to crystal clear water any longer. The big vultures, protected by law (because they are on the verge of extinction, of course) have taken control of the waters. They only give it to whomever they want in exchange for nothing else than fresh tender dove meat. Do you want to talk about freedom?” they said looking around fearful. ”Why do you think we keep visiting you?” they asked me rhetorically. They carried on answering their own question: ”Paradoxically, we are more free here in the prison than we were outside it. We are wanted and respected in here, while outside we are continually under enemy surveillance, and it wouldn’t come as a surprise if we found out that we are envied for being able to fly in and out of here. There is an old saying about those without many options in life: the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.” Normally, I should have tended to the doves by that point, but I didn’t want to scare away my new guest, so I decided to lie in a little longer. I turned my eyes to the rat. I couldn’t work out how he’d found his way into the cell. My first guess was that he sneaked in through the window bars. A few of the crumbs meant for the doves might have fallen off to the bottom of the concrete block. The rat would have taken the risk to climb all the way up the wall on the off-chance to put an end to his hunger; and once up there, he might have fallen inside. I glanced again through the opening of the window. I could see the barbed wire – deadly and razor sharp – standing to attention and ready to fulfil its harmful mission: to pick up on anyone and anything trying to get in or, more importantly, out of there. ”Still, the Rat somehow managed to get to my cell,” I said to myself in wonder.” His razor-sharp mind trained in scar-inflicting adventures must have hatched the master-plan.” I didn’t move a finger for fear that I might scare him off. I kept rolling my eyeballs for want of a better sight. He munched away happily, as if he had just discovered a magic mill or a wondrous oven that endlessly baked tasty bread. After such a hearty meal, the Rat licked his little paws a few times and mumbled something under his breath, most likely giving thanks to The Almighty for that filling feast. He slowly came off the table, like a wise old man, to find shelter under my bed in the far right corner of the cell. He set himself there, determined to share the confined space with me. I left him settle in for a few days; it was important that he got used to his new lair. Over the following week, it took a lot of hard work and patience, but in the end I had trained him to eat his food out of the palm of my hand. He seemed to have accepted my gift of friendship. After another week the Rat allowed me to pick him up. Happy to have gained his trust, I disentangled him from the white silk thread that impinged on his every move. I even gave him a steaming bath and a good scrub with my laundry soap; the only one I had available there. An army of fleas came running away from his grey fur-coat. Our life together went on for a year and nine months. We shared the same narrow cell where the sun never shone. We also shared our food and our misery; I even managed to learn the rat’s language. His company did me good and I was glad to know he was always around. However, I never entertained the idea of keeping him against his will for fear of my loneliness. Far from me! Quite the opposite: I often thought it was unjust that he took upon himself a life of punishment in confinement. On more than one occasion I picked him up and put him on the window sill, making him understand as best as I could, that he was free to go. He was free to go and enjoy the priceless gift of nature; freedom. Even now I can see him in my mind, nuzzling up at the fresh air. He would then turn around, stand up on his hind legs and stretch out his fore-paws to be picked up. He wouldn’t go, our friendship was becoming stronger every day. It did cross my mind that the poor Rat might have nowhere to go to, very much like many of us humans. Or maybe it was the case of the wise old saying: you cannot turn back time. As sometimes the ugly face of the present may turn to dust the good old memories that you cherished in your heart and soul. And it is an awful thing to end up trapped with bitter regrets and remorse. Anyway, my understanding of the loyal little creatur, was growing every day. I even came to understand the mission that rats have been given to fulfil in their lifetime on earth. Days passed by, and like all good things that come to an end, the peace of mind that the Rat had provided for me was due to come to a brisk end. On a cold winter’s day in the early hours of morning, something sudden and unexpected took us all by surprise; as it usually happens to the residents of such places as prisons. I was brutally made to get out of my bed, which had taken me ages to warm up that night. With my wrists and ankles tightly embraced by cold handcuffs, I was marched out of the concrete block like a ragged wild dog caught red-handed. Had written rules been followed and obeyed, then this wouldn’t have been the way to treat prisoners. I had done nothing against the prison’s code of conduct. Arguing about it, however, was a waste of time. I went out into the prison courtyard and found myself amongst hundreds of other discontented prisoners. We all waited out in the cold for the day without being given any explanation. The frost was biting; snowflakes were coming down. I was watching the dancing snowflakes imagining that up there, The Almighty was shaking them through the sieve of the skies, showering us all clean from sin. Later that evening we found out what had happened: a no-notice check was carried out throughout the prison. They’d found out that some prisoners were keeping forbidden objects in their cells. Like trained grey hounds that pick up the trail of their pray, the prison guards rummaged through everything. Suspiciously, they searched high and low, left, right and centre to find what they were looking for. According to their thinking, even the lidded toilets could be nestling a new species of highly evolved worms which, given a chance, would break free and adjust to any environments; taking risks, hoaxing and skimming in order to put themselves in charge of millions of deadly bacteria ready to attack on command (similar to the way of the world in our own society, controlled by cunning robbers defended by laws that they themselves make). The cold made me numb all over. Stiff-frozen, I had lost track of time standing there. All I could think about was my friend, the Rat. I was eager to see how he was and share with him what I’d been through that day whilst we’d been apart from each other. Late that evening, when they finally allowed us access to our force-rented accommodation, I found that my cell was an up-side-down mess. It was as if thousands of thunder bolts had struck the place in anger. The bed had been moved away from the wall and the Rat’s dwelling had been turned into a bloody puddle. Blood droplets shivered, and slid along before they let go and disappeared in distress amongst the hay-straws; they were still hosting the bodily warmth of the little creature. It dawned on me that a king-size boot had squashed him, as the big dirty footprint on the wall above was bearing witness. There was no trace of him, though. In my wayward search for him all over the cell, I felt like hurling myself against the door, wailing and wallowing! But despite my deep distress, I knew nobody would bother to hear or help.