A Game Called Loneliness

A Game called Loneliness-3

I woke up early in the morning. The guard started his round by banging his truncheon in the iron door of every cell. It made a deafening noise and was a gentle reminder of the place we were in. It happened every morning in case we forgot our whereabouts and started thinking that we were in a leisure centre instead. The prison rules stated that on hearing the bang on the door, everybody should stand up and come to attention as an acknowledgement of the fact that we were still alive. The guard on duty must have been seriously wound up by the fact that most of us were still alive and relatively well, and went around slinging doors open against the wall. He was seething with anger at our obstinacy to stay alive, forcing him to do his round every day and put up with the stuffy air slapping his face like a punishment for the ear-splitting noise he was making.

But none of those nasty things bothered me as the delightful thoughts from New Year’s Eve revisited me. I kept pacing up and down my cell all day long: it was only a six-square-metre narrow cell. The night-fall found me in the same state of mind. I felt eager to write, I wanted to write and I knew I could actually do it, but how should I start?

I was standing by the window, watching the Sun going down as the moon started its night round. Yet again, I was being taken in custody by darkness, forsaken amongst four cold walls. It was here that winter kept secret its most intimate feelings, as if in fear that the other seasons might find her out. I could see the barbed wire ready at any moment for a bloody confrontation: I got the chills only looking at it. My fear reinforced once more her undisputed authority as the mistress of the place. She must have enjoyed that, because next I saw her starting to dance by the whistle of the old wind.

I came off the window and lit up a candle. I took pleasure in watching her: following the rhythm of my breath. She was curving her flame up and down echoing my every move and that stopped me feeling lonely. I set myself down at the little wooden table; its corners were worn by the elbows of many destinies spent in there before me. I opened my notebook slowly and wiped my pen clean from the ink that had stained it. I tried it on paper to see if it still had the strength to write and it did! The pen was up and ready to become an active part in the making of my story: even the blank white page seemed eager to host my story. I felt her longing like a young mum looking forward to seeing her new-born baby. All I had to do now was get down to work: I was thrilled and overjoyed.

The candle flame was watching her own reflection in my cracked watch-glass placed in front of me on the table, trying to make sure that her eyes didn’t look tired. The glowing distracted me. I glanced at my watch and it was six o’clock in the evening. Seconds went by like drops dripping from an icicle into the thirsty ground beneath. I couldn’t tell how another hour flew by, but suddenly an ear-splitting screech burst out of the hinges of a door. Even to this day, I can still hear it in my mind. I would hear it every day, several times a day, throughout the years I spent locked up in there. But that particular evening, when the night guard opened the un-oiled iron door, the screech had been sharper than ever. This was the iron door opening in the hallway with forty prison cells lined up on both sides. Forty prison cells stuffed with thoughts of misery; forty small airless prison cells.

The door must have been left un-oiled on purpose so that it could impinge on our peace of mind, which was fragile enough as it was. That was the time when the night guard came in to check on us, he was making sure that nobody had escaped. I was holding my pen in readiness for writing, when I heard the screech of the rusty door shooting down the prison hall with a tomahawk in its hand. It was coming all the way to my cell, it stormed in through the key-hole and struck into my brain with its furious might, as if any of it was my fault. There was my mind, warm and welcoming, opening up wide to take in the upcoming story, arriving as a fairy princess in a royal carriage, prepared to downsize without much fuss to the humble conditions of its new host.

This is how my story was born. The screech of the prison door unstuck the rusty door of my mind, which was heavily worn by uneasy and unsettling thoughts. The darkness turned into light straight away. That very night I managed to fill up my notebook: the night seemed to have vanished in a split second. I couldn’t believe my luck! I didn’t know myself! It was as if somebody else was in charge of my hand, leading it in line upon line of writing. My mind and my soul were heavenly free, travelling through a fantastic world, free of boundaries and full of adventure. My soul was gliding with glee!

*

Next thing I knew it was the crack of dawn and I had already filled up all the pages of my note-book with heavy writing, which stooped over under the meaningful load of the story that was being born. I was handling my pen with mind-boggling skill; whilst throughout the night I had allowed myself to be born on a breath-taking quest, in a fairy-land in the making under my eyes.

My emotions were running high, taking control of my body. On a rummage through the inner-most hidden corners of my heart and mind, I was coming across waves of thoughts and feelings as my hand was excitedly racing along to keep up with it.

I kept writing relentlessly until my enthusiasm was cut short by an unforeseen event: I got to the last page of my note-book. I became so disheartened, that the candle flame that kept me company with loyalty throughout the night, fretted out. My face went from glowing with joy to glooming with sorrow. I could tell that the candle was checking the worry wrinkles on my forehead, preying on my feelings like hungry snakes hauling for the kill.

My worries were on good grounds as I didn’t have another note-book or anything else to write on.

My story was just being born in a cold cell, and no doctor or midwife was anywhere near. No one was there to share the joy of its coming into the world, or the disappointment of not being able to continue it. I needed some fresh blank sheets urgently to wrap up the newly-born, nice and warm. Just like young parents prepare the snow-white blankets and sheets to welcome the precious bundle who would change their lives forever; from then onwards, they would cater for its every need and keep unblemished the warmth and love the motherly womb had offered…

Breathing in and out deeply slowly made me feel somewhat better and a heart-felt sigh took over my soul. I placed my pen carefully between the page and the last cover of my note-book and I opened my fingers slowly. A few joints crackled, telling me off for removing the pen out of their touch and I was watching them distracted. My resignation had made me oblivious to their complaints. I knew they were tired, yet willing to carry on working and that was after having worked hard for the whole night. It was especially the three fingers on the right hand: the thumb, the forefinger and the middle finger who each had a cute indent on their rosy cheeks. I’ve noticed their secret love glances with the pen that rest in the nest of the book spine. He smiled contentedly, happy to have been of service. He did it on purpose, so that they wouldn’t forget about him until next time. He was just like a wise little boy, who wanted to make a good impression before he walked off from a group of girls, leaving them looking forward to seeing him again. That was the game that the pen played with my fingers that night: he took them out of their comfort zone, walking them through the glades of my story, and now they were full of their own importance.

Looking at them, I smiled. My left-hand fingers came to the rescue, gently stroking those little dimples to encourage the warm blood flow come that way to comfort and soothe them and get them ready for sleep, which had been quietly a-waiting for them for a while.

A light smile fluttered on my lips and the breath of life on it made its way to the candle Light. Dainty and fragile, she leaned over and her movement caught my eye. A grateful thought plucked off the bottom of a drawer in my mind and went to her. She had put herself forward for me all night, and yet she still found the strength to cast a pale shadow against the shabby wooden table. I could tell however, that her magic powers were fading away slowly. Daylight inched in confidently through the window-bars and the sun was getting ready to come up and take over his throne as usual.

The light rays flooded the cell inquisitively without asking for anyone’s permission. Proud and confident, they were gliding and sliding over everything. Beautiful in their own right and fully aware of how much sought after they were, they budged towards the table with the candle on it. Usually she was generous and light-hearted, yet she couldn’t help a strop of jealousy at the undisputed power of daylight to which she had to bow humbly. I peeped at it unnoticed, to save her embarrassment. My heart went out to her: she had burnt out more than half throughout the night. Her head rested in her hands, while staring worriedly at the wild wrinkles on my forehead.

I guessed her discontent and, to put her mind at rest, I smiled widely to smooth out all of those wrinkles that seemed to worry her. The candle cast a glance of acknowledgement and she smiled back happy to see that her emotions didn’t go unnoticed. Shy, she let her arms drop alongside her body, stopped swaying her flame and shrank herself to a tiny spark, hardly visible. For a moment, I thought she’d gone off, but I was wrong. A tiny flame still throbbed on; she would do that every time the sunrays came up. She was wise to do so, to use her light sparingly to gain days of life. She was loyal to me and ready to put herself forward to light up as many nights as she could for me at the expense of her own life.

She watched me languidly, knowing that I would soon have to put her off as I always did at dawn. I would seek to preserve every single moment of her life. She would have wasted herself in daylight, whilst at dusk, the candle could team up with her friend, the night, in order to become the undisputed mistress of the room. This I happily agreed to each evening. Although aware that I had to put off her light every morning, I could tell she had mixed feelings about it as I drew close and rounded my lips to blow off the flame. It bothered her that I would be left on my own for the whole day, tidying up my room in her absence. It was a kind of jealousy against all the other things in my cell, which you could count on the fingers of one hand. It saddened her that they could be there for me throughout the day, while she had to go to sleep.