White Wall

The turmoil in his head seemed akin to the sea during a hurricane, with thoughts swelling quickly only to subside and become eclipsed by another. He couldn’t seem to latch onto any of them as they rolled through his consciousness, so he just quit trying. He began to enjoy these short glimpses of his past. Jumping on the trampoline as an awkward little kid, he imagined being swallowed by the black round mat, only to land on the couch in his friend’s basement where he first felt the warm suppleness of a teenage breast. Her hair had smelled of vanilla as it gently tickled his neck, and her mouth had tasted of peppermint. This wonderfully juvenile erotic sensation gave way to a thought that one would wince upon having if they were only conscious and aware of it. He imagined himself alone, not just sitting alone but completely devoid of companionship. For him, the thought rolled by without much consideration. The following tumultuous remembrance was of his father, of the last time he saw him. He held him hard by the shoulders and peered into him, not at him. His father’s eyes were narrow and accented by lines that fanned from the corners like petals on a flower. That was the only appearance of softness he could remember. He felt his father grip him tighter, and with bourbon breath he said, “The world is cruel, son. Be cruel back.”

The words of his patriarch drew him from his mind and into reality. His stark cell was devoid of character. It housed only him, his toilet and his bed. The small glass window in the door gave him a view of nothing, only a white painted cinder block wall. He was alone in a captive world full of harsh cruelty, a world created to shelter those who couldn’t understand or tolerate it, and all he could see was nothing.