12-02-2014, 02:47 PM
1
Inside
It’s the noise that’s the worst. Well, that and the stink of over-boiled vegetables and disinfectant. The noise is incessant and begins first thing, the moment the doors are unlocked. There’s the tinny cacophony of dozens of cheap, badly tuned radios blasting out misogynistic aggressive rap, pappy mindless pop, dolorous dirges of love lost, teenage angst and God knows what imagined injuries. I have my books of course, but have you tried reading in a madhouse?Once we’re let out from our pig pens and radios are lowered to the noise level of dull migraine, hundreds of feet drum, scrape, drag or march through the steel doors to the wash house, accompanied by cat calls of titanic vitriol, words only imagined in my youth. The twisted faces and sneering mouths of my fellow inmates appear to me strangely medieval, some hellish vision of a stoning perhaps.
It’s me they hate. Oh, they hate each other too of course, because that way they get to feel less despised themselves, less of a non-person tossed aside by society and left to rot. Despite the crush of sour bodies pressing into the wash house they give me a wide berth as if what brought me here will somehow contaminate them if they should brush against me. I go through the ritual of cleaning myself with a tiny grey slab of soap as hard as pumice. I dress quickly in my shapeless shift, walk, head high, through the mass and enter the dining hall. The queue is already three deep at the counter, tin trays banging in rhythm against the shatterproof partition. It seems that only by surrounding themselves with constant buzz, yelling and clamour can they prove their existence – perhaps that explained the occasional wrist slashing, a need to feel – to be.
I carry my grey slop over to a corner of the room where I sit alone, as always. I shovel the mess in without pausing and without noticing what I eat. My tray and plastic beaker are neatly stacked and again with my head high, I walk slowly back towards the sanctuary of my 10 by 10 cell. As cells go it isn’t bad. I have a narrow hard bed, a small table and chair and a wobbly shelf which contains my prized possessions – my books. My drawer holds the bare essentials – I ask for very little.
Nobody shares this space with me. Nobody wanted to be this close to “the monster” and that suits me fine. I close the door, which is allowed during the daylight hours, and reach for my most precious book. I caress the brightly coloured cover and trace my fingers round the figures. This is what I enjoy before opening the pages, teasing myself almost, delaying the exquisite moment when I at last crack open the spine, turn to the first printed page and immerse myself. Breathing deeply, I attempt to block out the surrounding shrieks, blasphemies, cackles of manic laughter and the bawling of the guards. I open out the book.
“Janet and John Go Fishing.” This is magical, and the print is large enough for me not to have to use my glasses, which I hate to do. It’s not as if I’m not ugly enough without having them perched on my long nose. Using my finger as a pointer I carefully follow each word while my mouth copies the sound. These kids have such a lovely life! Look, there they are sitting having a picnic on the bank of the river, Janet with yellow hair and John with his hamper and a bright shirt. It must be wonderful to belong to a family like that, with a brother to play with and a little dog, all looking so happy. Some part of me knew that families weren’t like that really, and it was impossible to imagine the mad melee I shared my new life with ever even having siblings. Still, it was my book and I could imagine what I liked. I bend my head to concentrate on the rest of the story.
I did really well that day. I managed to get through four new books, and one of them didn’t even have any pictures in, which of course always made following the stories easier but less challenging too. Each was replaced on the shelf most gently, and lined up according to its size to its neighbour. I was proud of my neatness and no guard ever had to reprimand me with a baton for being a slob. Nobody ever entered the cell except me, and I thought the guards were scared to be alone with me, which saddened me because I’m a decent sort on the whole.
When I considered some of the dreadful crimes the other inmates had done, I sometimes wondered where God was, and why He didn’t smite them down where they stood. Thieving off old ladies, deliberately conning innocents out of their hard earned cash, knocking people on the heads just for a laugh. One old timer in another block boasted to anyone who would listen that he had set fire to a house with three people in it, just because the man had dissed his car. What sort of scum would do that?
I’m beginning to get one of my headaches now. I’ve tried aspirins and rocking back and forth and even pressing my temples so hard that I’ve dented my face, but it won’t go away. There’s a pulsing crimson flash behind my eyes which gives off sparks as if someone’s set off a huge firework in my skull.
I lie on the bed and try to shut my eyes, but all I can see is my line of precious books, nicely lined up according to size. My thoughts are getting fuzzy now, but along with the sparks and the pain and the bright red light is the knowledge that nobody will ever touch my books. Not after the last time ………
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