Waiting

Three Months

I was tried. I was sentenced. A charge of murder had been brought against me. The Dueling Laws had, unknown to myself and the other party involved, gone into effect only months before the event. I will not go into detail about what transpired, but my opponent is dead and his brother, also his second, had the charges brought against me. It was done by pistol, and I sat in front of the judge. The judge was an old man with white hair and a permanent scowl across his face from dealing with lawbreakers and scoundrels alike. Death was my sentence. I was to die in one year, on the anniversary of my crime.

I was taken away; out of the courtroom, out of the city and into the prison. The prison itself was on the very outskirts of the city. An imposing structure make of thick brick, dense mortar, and heavy iron gates. Once a castle of sorts, it housed those convicted of crimes worse than my own and forced them to carry out the rest of their lives in its wake.

I had no comprehension of how I should have reacted; whether I should have been frightened, anxious, depressed, or even concerned towards my fate. I accepted my sentence; I accepted what I had done. But the closer the wagon crept towards the building, the more I felt the need to throw myself from my seat and take my chances plummeting into the stone and water-filled quarry below.

I was taken to my cell. It was a square where I could pace no more than eight steps to meet a wall, turn and take another eight paces to meet another. I was placed in the cellar with other men who waited their turn with death. I was given no extra clothing except a gray blouse, matching trousers and no shoes; the guard told me that the ones I arrived in would be burned. My cell door was a thick wooden door, sturdy and heavy that took nearly two guards to shut. I had no window and the only light came from the lanterns on the wall in the corridors.

My days were filled, in the beginning, with pacing. I knew every inch of my cell at some point, in light and dark. I had no comprehension of time except when meals came around, which was only twice a day—except for Sundays, when there were three. When pacing bored me, I sat at the end of my bed: a stiff, cotton-filled lump of mattress that I would force myself to sleep upon. There were nights where sleep never came. There were nights when I began to realize that I was, indeed, in prison, and adapting would be similar to catching an apparition with a glass jar!

When I was able to sleep, I would hear sounds: voices and incomprehensible noises. Murmuring that sounded like speaking in my dreams, but I was never certain I was dreaming, as it sounded like conversations through the walls. Even in daylight hours, noises echoed and bounced off the ramparts. The sounds of guards chatting as they passed or the beating of a dysfunctional prisoner acted as our newspaper. But the sounds were stranger; they lingered, trying to make their presence known.

Six Months

I have officially ceased sleeping. The noises in the corridors at night keep me awake and I have been determined to investigate what they are. A time ago, a neighboring prisoner’s cell was thrown into utter chaos in the middle of the night. The guards went about their ritual of inspections and left the cellars alone for the evening. I had taken to falling asleep sitting upright on the edge of my cot, while eating my supper, or even against the wall when I paced. I decided that night would be the night when I would attempt to sleep properly again.

I lay on my mattress, facing the wall, and felt the relief of shutting my eyes washing over me. As suddenly as I shut them, my eyes shot open to the sound of sobbing, pleading and disturbing screams from my neighbor.

I listened to hideous banging and pounding against his door and the walls. It was thunderous noise and his cries for help were all the more disheartening. It went on, continuously, until it all suddenly ended. The cell, the corridor, were quiet again. I shot upright in bed, hoping to hear the pounding footsteps of the on-duty guards report to the demanding cries, but none came. It was utterly silent, as though voices and sounds had been muted throughout the corridor.

I felt my nerves pricking on every end of my body; should someone come along and prick my shoulder with a needle, I would have screamed in agony. My heart pounded in my ears and I sat, motionless. Had the guards not heard anything? Had no one but I heard this? I sat for what felt like hours. I pulled my knees into my chest. Where in God’s name had I been sent?

Anxiety rips through me as if I’m paper. I don’t sleep any longer. I refused. My nerves have been shot and dismantled so that I cannot eat. And I shall tell you why:

Nights ago, I managed to convince myself that my neighbor who cried out was mad and suffering from some sort of delirium from being in prison for so long. Yet when breakfast arrived the next day, a commotion outside of my cell door sparked my curiosity.

My neighbor had not responded to the guard for his meal. Within moments, the guards I had hoped would come that night finally arrived. Nearly every guard showed his face in front of his cell as his lifeless body was removed from the room. I dragged my cot, and as I perched on it, I caught sight of my deceased neighbor. Not a bruise, scratch or single drop of blood could be found on any of his limbs. I felt my color drop to the floor. I watched for as long as the guards were present. I finally lowered myself. He was not mad at all.

The following night, I was thrown back into an attempt to sleep. This time there were no noises, but I could feel I was not alone. Something had stung the back of my neck; it was icy and heavy. My cell was notoriously warm for being located in the cellars, but at this moment I would have sworn there were icicles on the ceilings. The icy prick was enough to make me turn onto my side to see what was the cause.

My breath quickly caught in my throat and I made the decision not to move, less I end like my neighbor. It stood against the opposite wall, yet I’m not certain I could say it stood. No, this was a manifestation of my sleepless mind. I was hallucinating; it was a dream. But I felt lucid. I was awake. I was staring at it and it stared back, or was I not wearing my glasses?

I could not move. I could not blink. It was gray-blue smoke that hovered in place and slowly, ever slowly, I watched it morph. It came into clearer view, with eyes and hair, and began itching towards me. I wanted to scream, wave my arms into it, and make it vanish but I was motionless. Could it feel my heart pounding? My lungs clinch from lack of air? Did it understand my need, my want to throw myself under my bed like a frightened child?

We were inches apart when it vanished, taking the cold air with it. My breath came back into my body, quickly and sharply. I was shaking almost violently and my knuckles were white from clinching my bedcovers. My eyes darted across the cell with fury and I was left utterly paralyzed. This place, I’m certain, has occupants that are not used to sharing the space.

Nine Months

I have gone mad, I know this for certain. I do not sleep and I have most recently begun holding conversations with myself. But what lurks in this cellar, in this prison is what has made me mumble like a madman. I sit for hours in my cell trying to figure out, reason, and convince myself has been haunting me at night, invading my thoughts and dancing on the walls. Lights and shadows graze my floors. I hear them speaking in unknown tongues and tones. They talk to each other, to me. They shriek at times, bellow and cry. I’ve learned some of the voices; know what they may say, but I’m frightened of them all the same.

They are merciless. They have tormented us all at some point. They destroy our minds and rip away our sanity. But I cannot leave. I must teeter on madness within these four walls; death is a greater pleasure than sharing this space. The anniversary of my crime is nearing the date, yet I have heard no word of how I will be killed. I’ve heard no word of an executioner or given pen and paper to make a will.

The judge knew, the guards, the warden; they all know what is down here with us. This is our death sentence. And it is only a matter of time before they clear our cells and bring another prisoner; a matter of time before one goes mad; delivers our own death blow or wait. Wait for the voices to take us. We are all waiting.