Aidan: Red

Monday, December 18 2215         23:57        Albury, the Commonwealth of Australia

The clock is ticking.

Silently I check the air conditioning duct on the wall above my bed. Yes, the bars are loose.

One minute gone. Two left.

Outside, Boyce is marching down the corridor, doing his routine nightly check on prison inmates of this floor. I lie on my bed and fake a tired expression. He passes my cell.

Two cells away, a man begins to scream. He does this every night, probably thinking about his prison release that will never come. In my mind I picture him pounding against the wall in despair and cannot help but worry about my near future.

The lights dim. 23:59. I get up and walk around in circles in anticipation of what was about to come. I look up at the air vent, my only way out, and imagine the smell of fresh air and the feel of wind slapping my cheeks. What’s history is about to become present.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. “Lights out!” Boyce yells from the far end of the corridor. I listen to his boots tapping away. There is a click and everything goes black. I wait a few seconds until my eyes adjust to the dark.

I stand on my bed and twist each bar on the air vent, slowly so I do not wake anyone. They come loose one by one. I lay them on my bed and place my hands on the vent. With a deep breath I haul myself up and tunnel into the air conditioning duct, head first.

The journey is long. Eyes closed, I make my way through the air conditioning duct, trying to ignore the dirt, the cold and the possibility of getting caught. Keep hoping, I remind myself. A bump in the head tells me I’ve reached a two-way end. In my mind I draw a map of the duct, which I had studied in previous nights, and decide to go left. I twist my body to the left and use my hands to propel myself forwards. My back burns with pain, and I involuntarily emit a small whimper. I grit my teeth and, completing the turn, move myself onwards.

Fifteen minutes have passed when I reach the end of the duct. That was longer than I had expected. You have to do better, my mind tells me. My head comes out first, then my body, and my legs. Groaning I haul myself out of the duct and onto solid ground. Looking around, I confirm that I am on the roof.

The night sky is dark, plain and beautiful. The moon shines brightly, replacing the typical glow of the stars. The street lights are a blinking yellow: soft but full of energy. Up here, I catch the smell of fresh air�"my first sign of freedom.

Moving slowly as to not attract the attention of the marching guard below, I crawl to the edge of the roof and study the front of the place. The triangular F Unit of the Albury Prison Center is three floors high. Not a long way, but already a good thirty feet down.

Holding my breath, I wait until the guard has passed the area below my crouching place. A glance at my watch tells me it’s almost time. Soundlessly I shift to the right and situate myself behind the protection of a pile of metal wires.

Ten seconds. The guard has now gone around the back of F Unit to check on the exercise yard.

Two seconds. I clamp my hands over my ears and brace myself for the blast that is about to come.

The explosion announces itself with an earsplitting bang, tearing the exercise yard and hurling broken pieces of benches up into the air. Quickly I retreat to the edge of the roof and scramble down the ladder. Behind F Unit, the whole stretch of grass is red with fire. Tongues of fire, upon reaching the building, lick the prison walls ferociously.

Soon the building is engulfed in smoke and flames. I dash across the now guard-less front yard. The entrance of the prison center is closed, but I am prepared. Swiftly I climb up the guard house and, painstakingly trying to maintain my balance, haul myself onto the gate before leaping downwards.

I am out. I can barely conceal my excitement as I run away from the scene, palms sweating, heart racing. I keep it up for another ten minutes, sprinting along small roads and across quiet parks. Sirens of fire engines can be heard in the distance. Glancing back, I see the Albury Prison Center, now becoming fainter and fainter, surrounded by the beautiful silhouette of fire. Red. It is energy. It is a possibility. It is freedom to me.

When I am out of danger, I take a stroll to the main road. A taxi cab approaches upon my request. He asks me for my destination.

“Moruya Airport,” I reply.