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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1767549
by terobi
Rated: ASR · Monologue · Sci-fi · #1767549
Based on a dream. The thoughts of a solitary man trapped in a featureless prison reality.
My name is Abel Witcher. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what I did.

Each day the wardens come. They bring food. I scrape against the wall.

My escape is getting closer. Soon the ventilator beneath my bed will be wide enough.

I don’t know where it leads. But anywhere’s better than here.

I think they will discover me soon. The wardens are not men. They’re machines. Blank and white.

Machines are better than me. Their senses better. They are tireless. Silent. Imposing.

They only bring food. They do not communicate. Not a sound. Not a movement of the blank face.

I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what I did.

The white and grey bleaches my mind. My thoughts. Everything white and grey. White and grey.

The silence rages against my sanity. Drowns out my soul. Stops me being me.

Every day I dig. My tunnel might lead to freedom. It might lead to death. But I need one or the other.

The constant nothing. Nothing for as long as I can remember. It’s the worst torture I can imagine.

I can’t remember seeing another prisoner. I see shadows. My mind playing tricks.

There is no day. No night. Just white and grey.

The wardens are the only sign of time passing. The wardens are my day.

Each day the wardens come. They bring food. I scrape against the wall.

I see through my tunnel. Almost wide enough. I still see only white and grey.

The tears sting my eyes. The air remains still. The cell remains silent.

I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what I did.

I am aware of concepts. Of others. Of outdoors. Of freedom.

I don’t remember experiencing them. But something must have come before.

Before the white and grey. Before the cell. Before the wardens.

Something I can’t remember. Something of the before me. The real me. Not the imprisoned me.

I don’t know what is outside. I don’t know if there is an outside.

Perhaps this is all there is to existence. White and grey. Alone and confined.

Perhaps the wardens and the food do not exist until I perceive them. Perhaps existence is my senses.

I cannot believe that. There must be something else. Something greater. Others.

Each day the wardens come. They bring food. I scrape against the wall.

My shoulders will fit through the hole. I still see only white and grey. I feel no movement in the air.

I can see downwards, on the other side of the hole. A sheer drop. Not too far.

There is outside the cell. The cell is not all of existence.

A corridor. Smooth walls. White and grey. Stretching on.

There are no other ventilators. Perhaps this building was built simply to keep me prisoner.

Am I that evil? Do I belong in my cell? Do I deserve the wardens? Do I deserve the white and grey?

Questions. I haven’t asked myself questions before. I had no need. Questions imply communication.

Communication requires others. There must be others.

Did others put me here? Do they believe I deserve this? Am I that evil?

I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what I did.

I have been walking for time. There are no wardens. No days. Just time.

One second leading to the next. Step following step. White and grey.

Perhaps this is all there is. Just the corridor. Perhaps there never was a cell. Never wardens.

My stomach is in pain. I haven’t eaten since my cell. If there was a cell.

Perhaps I have never eaten. Perhaps I don’t need food. Perhaps I’m imagining the pain.

Step follows step. The corridor stretches on. White and grey.

My steps are slower. I think they’re slower. It’s difficult to tell. There are no landmarks.

Do I need food to walk? Is there food in my cell? Did the wardens keep delivering it?

Do the wardens know that I have escaped? Do others know that I have escaped?

I walk on. Slower. My steps clumsy. My vision starting to blur.

Shadows. Others?

I hit the floor. I can see shadows. I think I can see shadows. Grey against grey. Others?

I hear whispers. Whispers against the silence. Others?

I feel nothing.

If existence is the white and grey, what is this blackness? Will the blackness end?

I feel something.

I see something.

White and grey.

My name is Abel Witcher. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what I did.

Each day the wardens come. They bring food. I scrape against the wall.
© Copyright 2011 terobi (terobi at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1767549