Captivating Confines – Dead Deer

Captivating Confines

Nine hundred and ninety nine kilometres still to go. The lights of the highway seared through the night, speeding along bright roadside buildings cut through the mind like the sharpest knife slashing again and again; the journey is nothing more than a shower curtain left in shreds and ripped to the floor once more by Janet Leigh.

Powering rapidly onwards the destination beckons, but barely seems to draw nearer. The darkest part of the night appears no different when in the confines of this comfortable mobile bubble, three tons of transport. Seven hundred and thirty seven kilometres, the dawn breaks and it is less than five hundred.

The half light of a new morning is rich in promise, the stench of fourteen hours on the road turns the stomach, and as the day eases it’s weary way to mid-morning that promise is spent. The milestone of three figures left is reached shortly before the car careers through the central barrier, and comes to a sudden halt face to face with the towering wall of a heavy cargo vehicle. The driver had lost control. In the wide span of a hundred billion human lives lived and expired one more lost appears insignificant.

Inspired by prompts here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing herehere

Nov 9th – Captivating Confines

November 9th – Captivating Confines

08.57-09.07

The cell was grey. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling: all grey. The light, such as it was, was a grey metal dome, fixed to the ceiling, with an orange bulb shielded by a grey grille. Just in case. In the corner of this cell, as there was in the corner of every cell, was a toilet bowl, in grey aluminium, no lid. A sink, next to it, the same.

A grey metal shelving unit, the same brushed aluminium as the other fittings, was against one wall. On it he had put what he was allowed to put: a couple of books, a photograph, black and white, underclothes. His prison uniform, standard issue, was a darker grey, but still grey. Punishment was the sucking out of colours.

A window, too high to see out of, was on the end wall. The sky, as if in sympathy, or maybe just to mock him, was usually grey. What he could see of it.

He had done something, to be in here. He knew that much. What it was, or why he did it, didn’t really matter any more. The past was as grey as the present. How long ago was it, that he was put here? He had stopped counting, or even trying to count.

But he had held on to something. In his head was where the colours lived, where the colours had always lived. And he painted his days with the colours from inside his head, turning the walls into canvasses. Into giants.

Blues swirled into greens, reds into purples, sunrises and sunsets and the depths of oceans burst from his mind and played themselves onto the empty spaces of the cell walls, aching with beauty. The ceiling became galaxies, auroras, nebulae of exploding stars and dying lights. The confines of his cell were limited only by the colours of the palette of his mind, and today, like every day, he was captivated.

Inspired by writing prompts from here