I pound my bloodied and torn fists against the sides of the box that I find myself trapped in, but it is a useless effort – there is no way out.  Scratching, clawing, even chewing at a tiny splinter I may have created in my mad scramblings does me no good. Bloodied and raw, I fill with a pressure that threatens to burst from my filthy being, further contaminating my raw and polluted soul.

There is no way out – there is no escape from the physically crushing, mind bending weight of this prison. I beg to be saved from this anguish in which I languor; but there is no salvation, not for me, not for one so undeserving, so uncherished, so unloved.  There is only the false glimmer of light my inner demon allows me to glimpse so that I may be tortured further.

Bloodied, scrapped, tattered and torn, a thing not palatable to any other, I slide to my scuffed and rent knees to become a pile of bleeding flesh that has been ravaged by the walls that surround me. I bend forward clutching at the only thing I have left, myself, and allow the wailing to erupt from my stricken lungs, my raw throat; I bellow the moan I’ve been containing for so long.

My demon laughs; he finds my horror of an existence a great delight. I am a toy to be played with to pass the eternal time in which he shall dwell within me.  I can not escape him, though I try – all the more to his amusement. He watches me struggle so futilely; he basks in the tightening of breath that can no longer escape my burning chest; he hears my moans of agony and licks the salty tears that streak my filth ridden face.  He is my tormentor, he is my key, he is my only chance for salvation – though he shall never grant it.

The walls of the box are by now so raw with splinters from my scrapings that no matter where I lay my broken body for comfort, I find none. There is only jagged surface to be found here, a prison so impenetrable no one but I shall ever glimpse it, nor shall I ever be released from it. I have no false hope, only a fool would hope for mercy from such a beast.  Though a fool I am, I am not that fool…

Laying weeping in a pool of my own tears, blood and shattered dreams, I can find no blame other than my own. My demon chuckles as he reminds me the box is of my own design, made impregnable by my own failings.

Yet still, I rub my ragged and blood caked palm along the wall hoping to find the smallest fissure, an mere indentation, any sign at all that can offer me even the falsest of hopes that someday I will break free – but there is none.  There never has been.

In this box I feel my deepest desires turned to dust; my most cherished dreams denied; my fate sealed.  In this box I find my demon observing my anguish, relishing its unending torture and its most exquisite pains.  Here I am me – I am this quivering thing that lies upon the floor begging for a mercy of freedom that will never come; just a small measure of what others are granted, but no – not me. I shall never have the experience of those things, for I am destined to scrape and scratch and gnaw away at this unyielding box that is both miniscule yet cavernous at the same time.

Why will it not swallow me and end this pathetic shadow I have become of my former self, I do not know … so that my demon may have a thing with which to entertain itself? Consume me I beg of it, but it will not – what use am I to the box if it has no grief to feed from; no pain to color its darkened walls with; no feather left to pluck with which to brush itself clean.

My demon wants me locked in this box of misery and pain, perhaps only because it seeks the same thing I do – a companion of equal measure. It lives a lone existence as well, though I believe it was meant to, whereas I am meant for more, I am meant to be freed from this punji ridden hell of eternal despair.

But that is yet another false hope; another path to mental depravity that I shall have to avoid for as long as I can. Just one more shattered possibility in a world filled with tightly sealed boxes. Yet without these boxes, would I not be an empty shell? Another harsh reality to be born on the back of so many other realities I wish were not mine. But the lie told children that wishes will come true is just that, a lie; and the box containing my soul is shoved just a bit farther out of reach, the desperate moaning a bit more frantic, the laughter of my demon that much stronger – with a promise that one day I will succumb to its crippling madness.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela

© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.

The room looked like a scene from a Christmas movie. It was five o’clock and he was ready for their first Christmas together. Glancing round the lounge, he checked one last time to ensure everything was in place and just right. She would be home from work soon and he wanted it all to be perfect for her. It was a shame she had to work on Christmas Eve, but he’d lost his job and that meant she had to work as many hours as possible to keep up with the bills. He felt bad about it, but he did his best to make sure the house was tidy and there was always a meal ready for her when she got home.

The logs in the fireplace were burning brightly and the mantelpiece was festooned with a festive garland of holly, ivy and spruce. The Christmas tree sat in the corner of the lounge, resplendent with twinkling lights and sparkling baubles. It was a little bit too big for the room, but it was the perfect shape and you couldn’t beat having a real tree.

He’d placed Christmas decorations round the room, just as she had dictated. A pair of small pottery Victorian street scenes, backlit with tea-lights, sat on the mantelpiece. On the dresser was a small porcelain Christmas tree, complete with a tiny train winding its way up towards the star that crowned the top. Candles, dotted around the room added to the ambience.

He glanced at his watch again, if her train had been on schedule she would be at the station by now, climbing into her car to make the short drive home. He knew the roads were clear of snow, so it shouldn’t take her too long.

He clumsily knocked over a candle on the fireplace; it hit the stockings, causing an instant conflagration. Suddenly there was fire and smoke. He clutched his throat, he couldn’t breathe. His arms flailed about in front of him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t find his way out. He could feel the heat on his face, vaguely aware of the flames as they exploded from the fireplace and flowed like liquid over the Christmas tree. He stumbled over the furniture as he tried to escape. The noise of cracking wood and collapsing timbers was insanely loud. He fell to his knees in the smoke, blinded and choking. Darkness overtook him.

He woke and found himself still in the lounge. The room was a charred mess. He couldn’t quite believe it; somehow he had survived the inferno. He rose, checking his body. His clothes weren’t even charred, despite the heat of the fire. He stepped outside into the cold air of a winter’s night. The sky was clear, with twinkling stars and a full moon. It was quiet, the snow damping all sound. He glanced back at the house and saw skeletal roof timbers, black against the moonlight. The entire house had obviously been engulfed. Destroyed.

“How did I survive?”

He realised with a sense of infinite sadness he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. His body must have been completely cremated by the heat. He was…something. A ghost, a spirit. He felt nothing for himself, his sadness was for her. Thankfully, she hadn’t been home, that was the only saving grace. She had survived.

Weeks and months passed without notice. Time had no meaning in his new world. There were no seasons for him. It was always winter; it was always Christmas Eve. He knew he would forever be stuck in this ruined house, in the depths of winter. Alone.

His version of Hell was cold.

∼ RJ Meldrum

© Copyright RJ Meldrum. All Rights Reserved.

Others decide things for me, because whatever I decide turns out wrong. It’s all about knowing limits, and I can’t stop at the edges. I associate mainly with other sullied, stigmatized transgressors. I spent two years at the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital for the criminally insane, for trying to burn down the Austrian Club. I had a reason – they wouldn’t let me in. I told them I was Hitler’s grandson; they sent me to the street, and I turned incendiary. I splashed a can of gas up against their front door in broad daylight, then lit it on fire. That’s what got me committed “not criminally responsible by reason of a mental disorder.”

Now I’m out on a conditional discharge. My parents pay for my apartment rent. They’re my heroic supporters. I’ve stayed away from illegal drugs and taken my medications. Now I must test myself yet again. Sitting across my kitchen table is escaped Forensic Hospital patient Jared Morriseau. He’s shivering and squirrelling down from a cocaine high. “You’re my only friend out here,” he says.

His face is all over the T. V. after he didn’t return to the hospital from his “Back to Work Program” day job. The stupid staff trusted him. He took his wages and taxied downtown to get high. The hospital notified the police. The police told the press. Jared, who hammered his two room mates to death in their sleep to prevent the end of the world, drinks the coffee I pour and asks “can I stay here a few days til the heat goes down?” His voice shakes. “I’m so scared, Luke. The police are gonna shoot me.”

I’m surprised they’re not watching right now. My biggest fear is that they’re going to burst in with their guns drawn, Jared’s going to freak out and bang bang bang someone’s dead. Even if I’m not hurt, it’ll ruin my progress. I’ll be sent back to the Forensic Psychiatric Hospital or worse.

I have to act cool. Underneath I want to stampede away and abandon Jared to his fate, but he’s my Forensic friend, and there’s an inmate code among us, ”Do not rat.”

“You need to go back to the hospital,” I say.

He raises his fluttering fingers to his face. “I’m sick of being out here.” His eyeballs resemble pinpoints. His hand jerks and he spills his coffee. “Shit,” he says.

I mop up the coffee mess with my foot, using an old shirt I had lying on the floor. “Call a taxi,” I tell him. “Get the driver to drop you at Forensic. Then walk to the gate and ask to be let in.” I take the shirt and throw it in the sink. “I’m gonna go for a walk,” I say. “So that the police won’t get suspicious. They’ll be following me if they’re out there.”

“Thanks,” Jared says.

“No problem,” I tell him. “I don’t mind being a decoy.”

“Who’s gonna pay the taxi fare?” he asks. “I blew all my money.”

“The hospital will. Go to the security guards and tell them the driver needs a big tip.”

“You can’t lend me twenty?”

“I’m broke,” I tell him, and it’s true. I spent my last money on the pack of cigarettes I’m about to smoke on my walk away from Jared.

I hand him a spare cancer stick and he grabs it, fumbles the thing into his mouth.

“I’ll think about what you said,” Jared says. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.”

I leave it on the table. It’s another gift from my heroic parents. I’m humbled by my failures, yet Mom and Dad stick by me. All I can do now is give advice to an escaped psychotic killer. They’d want me to run out to the park and call the cops.

I walk down the apartment stairs and into the fresh air. No sign of the police. I smoke cigarette after cigarette and hike along the edge of the river. I stand and hear the sound of the flow over the rocks. A couple of rusted shopping carts stick out of the water. I keep walking, out to the highway and all the way to the airport. It’s two hours of slogging, but it’s a distraction to hear the planes soar overhead, and more relief yet to be in the terminal, to watch them take off and land. I cadge some money for bus fare and coffee off a backpacker waiting for a flight to L. A., then make my long way back.

I hike up the apartment stairs and open the door. My phone sits on the table and there’s no sign of Jared. I hear a knock and its my neighbour Gillian. “The police came by,” she says. “They were looking for you.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, and close the door on her inquisitive face.

I turn on the T. V., with the sound off, and wait for the news. At six, I see Jared’s sallow, black whiskered mug and the subtitles for the hearing impaired running along the bottom. “The hammer killer is back in custody,” say the words. “He arrived in a taxi.”

I’ve done my part. Maybe paid back some of my debt to society. I handled the situation with mercy, without being a rat and calling the cops.

I miss my highs, the rush of feeling omnipotent, the way I did when I thought I could raze the houses of those who dissed me. I take my medication because it brings down my thinking. Normal is drab, grey, and gaining weight. I’m living within these limits because I don’t want to hurt anyone else.

“Don’t let today get to your head” I tell myself over and over.

There might be a meaning beyond my sick existence, perhaps this coolness in the face of crisis, that I can reach and touch and know, and be absorbed by. I will keep it close.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.