.escape

a story from the upcoming collection 'The Other People'.

I knew about the trafficking rings, the incarcerations, the men in white coats and their experiments, from the very few that were able to escape them. But they never did so unharmed. The ones who did return were mere shells of their former selves, and were only let out after their lust for life was gone, their spirits broken. I knew that I would have to face that hell of indignity eventually, but I had a plan. It wasn’t glamorous, but at least I would take control of my own life. When I was caught, the first thing they did was hand me over to the doctors. They put me under, and when I woke up from the procedure a part of myself was gone, I could feel it. But it was not enough to make me love my servitude. There was one way out, death, and I was ready.

Soon I found it wouldn’t be as easy as I thought. If I didn’t eat my appointed meals the men in white coats would find other, more horrible ways to keep me alive. For what purpose, I could not begin to imagine. Was it pure cruelty. No, it couldn’t be. Profit must be involved. I don’t imagine any of it is legal, but no justice was ever made. These wonderings however were fruitless. Even if I had all the facts, and could prove them, who would listen to me. It was beyond argument and logic and morality. So I focused on the practical details of my situation, hoping to find some way out.

Every once in a while new faces showed up at the prison, and they would choose some of us for the final experiment, the one from which no one ever returned. And I prayed, and I hoped, and I begged to be taken, because death was preferable to the hell of the prison complex. After the hunger strike and the forceful feedings, I was quickly back to normal. A fellow prisoner then told me I needed not despair. It was only a matter of time. He was healthy and strong, and those like him were never taken, it was always the maimed and the sick. Since I was born with a limp, I would surely find my way out soon, or at least sooner than my healthy and strong friend. From then on I leaned on my imperfection, every time new faces showed I limped harder, made a spectacle of it. And my plan worked, and I was happy. But not for long.

I never imagined that I was being taken somewhere worse, not to die quickly, or even slowly, but to be subjected to something much more nefarious than simple incarceration. The trafficking ring’s lair, I could see now, was only a waystation, and none of our captors had any interest in us beyond keeping us alive. But for what. Now I had the answer. I was to be tortured.

.

In the first prison there were lots of people, but here there were only two, a male and a female. And they were sick in ways I find hard to talk about. I knew immediately something was terribly wrong when I found twelve other prisoners there. That meant it was not, as I had hoped, a death camp. And it quickly became apparent that my captors’ perfid imagination knew no bounds. The first thing they did was change our names. They gave us all names from prophets of the bible. Surely a twisted and sick irony, to give the names of those who proclaimed freedom from tyranny and oppression to those suffering under one of its most violent manifestations. Worse still, all the other prisoners had forgotten their true names, and I feared the same would happen to me in time.

They treated us like retarded children, speaking to us as if we had no reason, and sometimes making us wear ridiculous costumes, and taking pictures, while we played with each other for their amusement. Sick fucks. They delighted in our humiliation and abuse. They never fed us real food. It was always some sort of disgusting porridge packed tightly in clinical metal cylinders. Whatever it was I doubted it had ever been alive in any way. And to add insult to injury, they used the food as an opportunity to put us through even worse indignities. They were perverts. They touched us in inappropriate ways, and fondled us in intimate places for their own pleasure.

They had in fact devised the perfect system of torture. It is one thing to be a prisoner, and quite another to love your prison. But that’s what I found in my brothers in captivity. Every single one had grown to like their bondage, and to regard the cruelty and perversity with which we were treated with gratitude. That meant I had no comrades. No one I could relate to. I was surrounded by traitors. But it only made my resolve to never give in stronger. They could imprison and degrade my body, but never my spirit.

.

I did not hide my hatred, nor my desire for freedom. I attacked my captors with the fullness of my aggression at every opportunity. But the more I did, the more my metaphorical leash was tightened. A few attacks were enough to put me in solitary confinement. A dark room with a single bed and a small window where I could see the sky, and nothing else. I found myself welcoming the solitude, and then I understood that it was a trick, just another attempt to break me. But such a revelation only served to rob me of all hope. It seemed now that, one way or another, they would get to me, and I would find myself loving, or at least being comfortable with, the most hateful thing in the world. Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but eventually, one way or another, I would be ok with my lack of freedom.

And so for the first time one of the wardens came in and I did not to attack, such was the depth of my despair of ever finding liberation. But there was something different that day, I was going to have a cellmate. Immediately I hoped he would be a rebel like me, and if there were two of us, perhaps there was some chance. We could encourage one another, if nothing else. But I was wrong. He loved his captivity, was repentant about his bad behavior, and yearned to get back in the good graces of our torturers. But his pathetic spectacle was useful in the end. He explained to me that certain privileges were afforded to those who behaved as expected. Privileges that, at the right moment, and with the right imagination, could be used to escape.

The good prisoners were allowed some unsupervised moments outside every day, and when I learned how to fake enthusiasm for the hell my captors put me through, I would be granted the privilege, and use it to test the limits and weaknesses of my incarceration, and eventually escape. So I changed my behavior and demeanor. I cooperated. I pretended to make friends with the other prisoners, and treated my enemies kindly, never again attacking them, letting their clammy hands fondle me whenever their sick, twisted minds desired it. Until eventually I was taken out of solitary confinement, and soon after that I was allowed to go outside. The first step in my plan was complete, and that gave me hope.

.

The yard was small, surrounded by walls too high for anyone to escape. The only option was to climb the lone fig tree in the corner, and jump from there. But it had recently been cut back, and I would have to wait for it to grow, and it would probably take all summer. Those were the longest months of my life. I waited, and monitored the growth of the tree, and suffered in silence. But then I could see the finish line. Eventually one of the fig’s branches would have grown enough for me to jump to freedom.

Given the zombified daze in which my fellow prisoners seemed content to live in, I never feared they would discover my plan. As for my captors, whenever they showed, I tried to hide any special interest I could possibly have in the tree. One day as I was looking at the branches, making calculations, a fellow prisoner came to talk to me. He told me he had been there the longest, and had once entertained similar notions, and even tried them. He’d jumped from the fig and landed on top of the wall, but he was caught in the barbed wire, and could not untangle himself. It hurt like hell, and worse, he was bleeding to death. He was taken to a hospital and nursed back to health. There were opportunities of escape, but he was too weak to attempt them, and when he finally grew strong enough to do it, they put him in a cage and took him back. But not to join the general population, and not to be put in the dark room of solitary confinement. No. He was taken to the room of horrors.

What happens there, I asked, but a warden had come into the yard, and my fellow prisoner refused to say more about it. His last words were, Don’t do it... you have a limp… if I couldn’t jump beyond the barbed wire, you won’t either… it’s better if you just accept your fate… there are worse fates than this… trust me.

The next weeks were filled with terror, but when I saw the fig was now grown enough for me to jump, I couldn’t resist. I would be free or I would die trying. The other prisoners by now were all watching me climb the tree, and started to make a racket. Soon a warden would come and prevent me from even attempting to jump, and so I wasted no time. I took a deep breath, and I threw myself. I soared through the air like a winged creature, or so it felt to me at first, but I have no wings, and quickly my flight ended, my back landing straight on the barbed wire. I was stuck, and bleeding, and when I saw the female warden open the door to the yard to come get me, I passed out.

When I came to, I was in a white room. My captors must have figured I was too weak to escape, because I was not restrained, and had been left unattended. I found the promise of sweet freedom was so nourishing to my spirit that I could overcome the horrible pains in my body, and so I ran out of the room, and then along a hallway, always making sure to hide whenever I heard anyone coming, until finally I found an open door to the outside. The smell of fresh air, the hot sun against my body, the taste of freedom. It lasted only a minute.

.

I was never again given another opportunity to escape. The doctors nursed me back to health and then I was taken back to the prison. And it was as I feared. From then on I lived in the room of horrors. The ultimate torture, the one that would no doubt, sooner or later, drive me insane, and break my spirit. There were no windows. Instead, a giant lighted screen permanently flickered with images of others like me. Except they were all free. Felines of all kinds enjoying their lives in the savannah, the jungle, the desert. Anywhere but the house of crazy cat people.

.