Day 27

Day 27

A Chapter by Skoo.

Two weeks of dull monotony since my last diary entry, and yet the gradual, unseen changes make the view from the bench a very different one.
The bright white walls are turning grey with the thin layers of grime that accumulate on every surface, clogging every orifice, sweat clinging to the floor like stale dew. Today the birdcages are full of "examples", deterrents: A balding man with liver spots who fought one of the guards; a woman with limp auburn hair who tried to steal extra food from the kitchen; a skeletal youth, no older than sixteen, caught with heroin stashed in a sandwich bag up his arsehole. 
Creations of one of the guards, the birdcages seem a hideously cruel method of teaching, Grace is telling me. They are suspended from the ceiling on metal wires 10 inches thick, rounded cages around five feet across, torturing their birds with the threat of an inevitable plummet into the concrete twenty feet below. There is nowhere to hide from the critical gazes of the other residents; the walls and floor are thick wire mesh. She is telling me about the guard, about what he does. He calls himself a “submission therapist”, says that all humans need leaders to guide them, says that choice and freedom make us suffer. This man who claims to protect us says that our greatest freedom is in submission. Grace is telling me that she knows exactly how that man’s heroin stash was stumbled across, but she doesn't elaborate further. 
Whatever is happening out there, I can only hope it ends soon. I hope they figure it out, that Simon reverses it, that something changes for the better for once. I have very little optimism though: in the movies the good guys always win, and there are no heroes inside these walls. 


© 2015 Skoo.


Author's Note

Skoo.
Well, that's the next chapter up. I'm pretty certain of where the story's going now, I just need to write it. Supposedly the easy part :L

Thanks for reading ^.^

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Added on July 17, 2013
Last Updated on October 3, 2015


Author

Skoo.
Skoo.

My Circuitboard City Of Yellow And Black, United Kingdom



About
My poems make little sense because my thoughts make little sense because my life makes little sense. I never class myself as a writer, 'cause I'm not one. I'm just some kid in the corner putting my n.. more..

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How The F***? How The F***?

A Poem by Skoo.


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A Poem by Skoo.