My Little Prison

 

Another day in this wasted world; another day for my pointless obsession, my madness; another day alone with cruel destiny.

The alarm clock goes off, wailing the same song over and over, never forgetting the lyrics. The timed coffee pot takes a different approach, coaxing me with the delicious scent of its sweet elixir.

 

The approach doesn’t matter; I don’t want to get up.

I fold my arms behind my head, ignoring them both. The wail of the alarm grows louder, more persistent—it surrounds me, drowning me in pure sound. I am about to lose myself in the void it creates when the door is kicked in. I hear the wood splinter around the lock and frown—one more of his mistakes digging into my pocket.

I open one eye, meeting his bewildered gaze. He’s all adrenaline—eyes bloodshot, shoulders heaving with each breath, gun cocked.

 

“Dominic! Why didn’t you turn off that damn alarm? I thought you were—“

 

“Gone,” I finish coolly, watching a vein in his neck twitch as I sit up slowly and turn off the alarm. “You should know by now that I have nowhere else to go…now I have to pay for a new door…”

 

I eye the broken one, then him—his cheeks are coloring with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

 

“Well, you should know better than to lock your door.” He looks like a sulking child. “I told you not to…”

 

I stand up, stretching and allowing the sheet to fall from my nude form as I turn around. “Sorry, boss,” I yawn, then grin, “but I didn’t want you to watch me beating off.”

 

The red coloring gets worse; he stoops, grabbing my jeans from the floor and thrusting them at me. I stare at them, but don’t move.

 

“Don’t crack at me, sonny. I told you to wear some shorts to bed, too. I don’t want to see that.”

 

            I stare at him. He’s a good head taller than me and all muscle, but he trembles slightly under my gaze—we both know who would win such a match. But there are three more stun guns strapped to three more muscled thighs in the hallway; I take the jeans, my gaze still holding him as I slip them on leisurely.

 

“Sorry, chief, I’d like at least one area of my life to remain uncontrolled. I’ll decide what happens with my dick.”

 

            He frowns, mustache bristling, but he only sidles into the hallway sulkily, closing the door as much as he can—I hear the slight crunch of the splintered wood grinding against the doorframe.

 

I go after my coffee.

---

 

            I press the button beside the window and the metal shutters rattle open, sticking slightly. Behind them, metal bars grin at me; the apartment yawns as murky sunlight slides in—my prison says good morning.

It wasn’t always like this; some would say it used to be much worse, but I think hiding us away together was better than isolating us out in the open.

The crisp morning air washes over me, the steam from my coffee cup rises to combat it; my skin prickles as the vapor loses the battle and condenses on my cool skin. I take a gulp of coffee, relishing the burn in my throat as I look out at the city.

Things used to be different, before the wars stopped, before the country grew a conscience reigned in by fear. I sigh, thinking back on distant memories, as I seem to do so often these days.

---

“You’re different,” a loud, male voice boomed from a loudspeaker located just over my head. I startled, scrambling backwards until I hit the wall of my meshed cage. “We have found that such differences are dangerous to society. We do not blame you, though. We know you were born this way, through no fault of your own. So, we’re going to take you somewhere safe where everyone is like you. There you can redeem yourself and no one will hate you for what you are.”

 

That last statement calmed me, not because it promised redemption, but because I realized that the voice spoke candy-coated lies. I needed no redemption. I had no one to repay for these strange gifts—except perhaps my parents, who were no longer capable of claiming such a payment.

If the beautiful man valued my gifts, then I had nothing to regret. I would cherish them as he did, no matter what the disembodied voice tried to charm me into believing.

 

The voice began again, “You’re different. We have found…”

 

A recording, I realized. They only pretended to care.

 

 I curled up, hugging my knees to my chest, and blocked the sound out—a gift they told me came from my mother. I’ve used that gift many times since then.

 

            I know the voice went on, though I no longer heard it. It set the tone for my new life—a tone of constant lies and little trust, of justified pain, of loneliness caused by these crimes of untruth.

 

“We do not blame you…”

---

 

“Heh…don’t blame you…sure.” I reach up, grasping the cold steel of a bar in my hand.  I stare at that hand boredly for a moment before letting it go and splaying my palm open before my face.

My hands are rather large and strong, though their present form does not earn them their infamous reputation. Scars lace my palm—many transformations, many clenched fists.

I can take the pain, others can’t—for this they fear me, for this they blame me, for this they cage me.

 

            I gulp down the remainder of my coffee—it’s a lot colder now, chilled by the morning breeze. It’s time to go; I don’t really need to, but I like the routine and the break from full confinement.

Sometimes, I wish I really had to go—for a normal, full-time job, the kind so many Americans hate and dread as part of their daily lives. I would cherish such a right, but finding regular employment is kind of hard when you’re like me; besides, after the new laws were passed, no "genonaut" had to worry about bills and the like.

The government “sympathized” with our trials and “understood” the difficulty we faced in rejoining the human world—more like they needed to keep tabs on us, should there be another war or even just an unexplained crime (we’re quite convenient when you need to push blame on someone).

No one complained that a small percentage of their tax dollars went to support those like me—they couldn’t afford to have us wandering their streets at night and their consciences wouldn’t let them live with ending so many lives “for the good of society”—not yet at least.

 

            Old jeans, a worn tee, my trusty boots and I’m near ready.

I head to the bathroom for a piss; there’s no door—Sarge likes to watch me here, too.  I wash my hands—I’m not fully barbaric—and look up to stare at the golden gleam of my own eyes, something that used to frighten me when I was young.

Strong jaw, high cheeks bones, full lips; sometimes I wonder if girls would find me attractive if I was normal. But my dirty blonde hair is messy and hangs in my face, and I tend to let the stubble laze around on my cheeks and chin for a while before I butcher it.

 

Probably not.

 

I turn the water off, wipe my hands on my pants, and head out.

Sarge and his lackeys stand as soon as I open the front door and follow me, hands set firmly on their gun hilts, ready should I try to escape—I rarely do anymore, all the fun has gone out of it.

I head down the rickety steps a few paces away from my apartment door, almost eager for the sunlight I can see through the glass door below.

It swings open for me easily and the dim light washes over me like milk over cereal—surrounding me and presenting me for the world to devour should they so choose. But no one ever takes the offer, I must be one of those healthy cereals that went out of style long ago because no one liked them—no one ever likes things that are healthy for them.

Healthy, how ironic—I’ve never been healthy for anyone. I set off down the sidewalk and the sunlight follows.

 

The day has begun.