Prisoner 182

Grey. Walls. Bars. People. I’m hungry. I’ve been here for decades, haven’t I? I can’t live like this. This place is way too filthy. They could’ve been considerate enough to place a decent bed. I don’t sleep like this. My sheets are white, whiter than snow, they aren’t grey. They don’t have holes. Aren’t they in the machine? The machine!! Have I left it on? 

“Ummm ....Mr? What was it?” I forgot his name. That’s odd; I make it a point to read nametags. Was he not wearing one?

I didn’t want to get up, so I waited patiently, swinging my legs, wearing the rags I was provided. Insufferable, these garments. They expect me to wear this?! All the time?! I can camouflage with these. The walls and my rags have a stark resemblance. They’re a dirty grey hue. Walls. This place is almost the size of my library. Tiny. However, I am proud of it, because I’ve read every book in that room. My new book’s on the table. I didn’t get time to cover it up with cellophane. Speaking of cellophane, I need to buy that. 

*Mind note- Add cellophane to shopping list

“What do you want?” A voice. Someone’s come. Someone called them. There was a deafening sound of a steel connecting with steel. The deafening kind of sound that resonates within one’s ear. The kind you can’t get out of your head, the kind that gets stuck on loop, the rise and fall of Beethoven’s piano. My brain created a piano before me, I was about to play when I saw someone behind bars.

He glared, menacingly, at me. I raised a brow, “Are you talking to me?” He sure seemed like; I wonder why I even asked that.

“You just called, Yunita” he replied.

He knows my name. Why does a man behind bars know my name? I called him, he says. Why? What was I thinking again? Beethoven? Cellophane? Shopping? 

“Ahhh yes!!!!” I remember. “Can you turn off my washing machine? I left it on” 

“Yeah, sure. Will do”

He left.

I’m Yunita, right? Right. I am. I’ve been here for a while, but not that long. I remember being in a more colourful world, a less melancholic one. My apartment, my books, my brushes, my paints, my palettes, my creations. I don’t belong here. I have work to do as soon as I get out. I need to listen to Beethoven; it’s been quite a while since I did. I need to wash the dishes from that afternoon. It was absolutely vital. My dishes can’t be left like that; I wouldn’t be able to eat again then. I broke one last day, 

*Mind note- Buy dishes. Porcelain

I was going to the bridge, wasn’t I? To paint the city from there. Rain. Yes, that’s correct, my new painting. It’s ‘Showers from Helton Bridge’.

I didn’t complete it. It was that man, I assume. That one who keeps following me. He was quite fond of the last painting. He said he’d like to buy it. Obviously, they aren’t for sale and most of the time these good-for-nothings aren’t even there for art. That one was the 5th, I think. Twenty third to start with, “Hey, that’s a lovely painting!”, “What marvellous utilisation of colours!”, “What excellent passion for colour!” 

I’d really be glad if they came up with the truth, “Hey, I don’t know a thing about art, but can I still talk to you or get you a cup of coffee?” It’s much more sensible that way. That way, I can say, “Yeah alright, I don’t mind coffee, but give me a sec to finish this ok?” However, no. It’s always the same approach, the same reaction and it’s rude to not respond to compliments. Interrupting my art is like their job! However, it’s worth it sometimes. Some of these guys are really sweet. Some aren’t though. The last one was adorable. Every muscle in his body rang the bell, “Oooohhhh, this one’s tasty.” Luckily, he started stalking me, so I got a lot of time to notice him. Probably took him a month to gather his guts to actually stammer the words, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

At least, he excluded the ridiculous praises and phrases, he himself couldn’t understand. Common thing about guys who come to talk to me, they use a lot of difficult words (most of them don’t even know the meanings.)

Honestly though, I loved this one. Like of all the guys I’ve, you know, placed onto my tongue, this one was like a crash course to Euphoria. My blood hasn’t pulsed in my veins like that since god knows when. I have to get back to finish him. I don’t even know why I didn’t last night. Ahhhhhh, now I need him, but I’m, somewhere on earth, where he isn’t. 

A rumbling sound, Thunder? No wait, that’s my stomach. Darn, I’m hungry.

“Do I get food here?” I screamed.

“A little later...”The same guy.

“Okie dokie”

Well, back to my thinking. I was thinking about Beethoven too, wasn’t I? The piano. Mom played the piano, right? She did. I haven’t heard people play like that. It was an unexplainable amount of devotion that created such melody in my ears. Like I said, it resonates. I tried learning the piano, however, it takes too much patience and not to mention it’s really delicate. A perfect fit for mom, delicate, gentle, and warm. I couldn’t quite fit into that; my style is freer, less restrained. In fact I’m actually famous for being bold. So, I’m into colours more. It’s much more natural to me.

All my admirers, (above mentioned 5 guys), always ask me this question, except of course the last one, “What’s your favourite colour?”To be honest, I’m not one who’s going to say, “I’m an artist, I love all colours”, it’s not true for me, ok?

I have a favourite colour, I love it. It’s passionate, it’s bold, it’s dangerous, yes, you’ve got it. It’s Red. I’m really fond of it. It’s also the portrayal of love. It really is. It’s been my favourite since I saw it that time. A bright, vibrant red, warm, yet so menacingly powerful, one stroke on the blank screen and it leaves one of the most impactful impressions. My optical muscles were strained beyond limits that time, I think, I couldn’t look away. My pupils must have shrunk. I was mystified. Stunned. Awestruck. Frozen at this marvellous hue, frozen in time. It was just me and that red, I just stared at it like a statue, it was like an old friend beckoning me to remember it. I became friends with red that day. Fell in love with it. It began my career as an artist. This was long back though, I must’ve been six or seven then. Father had to almost drag me away from that hue, I remember hugging that screen, I was that fond of it. I loved it. Absolutely entranced by it.

I lost my mother very soon after that. My father’s still alive, though. He does the books at a grocery store. I wonder what he’s up to now. Does he know I’m not at the apartment? I should give him a call, shouldn’t I? I’ll do it when they give me food, I guess.

Going back to the Guy, alright, his name’s Jason. I do know the name of the guy, ok? People just assume I’m really casual with my life, but not all the time. Like a wise man said, “What’s the point of living life so seriously? It’s not like your getting out alive anyway...”

Anyway, back to Jason. Jason’s an aspiring author. He walks along the bridge for inspiration, which is where, surprise!!! I’ve been walking for a month to create my painting. Well, this was basically how he spotted me. I noticed him after I realised, that my timings are really coinciding with this guy. Eventually, after few weeks of tactful observation and god knows how many motive-talks from his friends did he decide to actually ask me. Funny thing, the day when he asked, which is a week back, I saw him rehearsing. Like asking the lamppost out for coffee. Had a good laugh out of that. Which is where I got caught observing him and he blushed for a few moments before I said, “And so the real person isn’t going to get asked now, is she?”

After that was okay. He laughed, his muscles relaxed, I couldn’t help but notice his grey eyes calm down. That was, a lovely shade of grey. I’d Like to draw them someday, make him sit in front and paint those orbs out on paper. So, eventually we did fix a date, which was yesterday, had coffee and he was walking me back home. Clique things happen at nights like that. Not even going to bother explaining that. 

Then these red lights came into sight, interrupting a really, really nice moment. What a bother! I thought they’d just pass, but they didn’t. Then came the people. Then someone hit my head, next thing I woke here. 

Gotta get back to Jason. All that recollection left me more needful than before. Ughhhhhh! Why am I even here?!!! The bars, they’re in the way. I grabbed them, shook them with all my strength, “I have to get back to Jason.” The man returned. I finally had a good look at his stick, was that perhaps, a stun-gun? 

“Get back this instant!!”

“I’m hungry, alright?!!! Where’s the guy who was with me? What’d I even do to be here?! Look, if it was a complaint for disturbing people’s sleep, I’m sorry ok? We didn’t mean to get that loud!!! Either way, when do I get to leave?!”

“Tomorrow. You get to leave tomorrow ”he replied. I was content, I stepped back, more like fell back. My limbs are getting weaker. They’ve been a bit weak since I was a child.

I remember my right arm breaking when I was six. Mom, I saw her come crashing down when I was six. At six, I met red. Felt it’s warmth on my cheeks, right below my right eye. The broken, filthy walls at the alley behind Fifth Street were enamoured by red that day. A blank filthy wall was coloured that day. Warm, gentle, red. The red I hugged, the woman on my knees. Huh?! Were my eyes really strained because of the red, not really, they burnt, they hurt, I was crying. I was mystified? More like terrified. Awestruck? Dumbstruck. The woman on my knees. Mom. The blood in my veins pumping in enthusiasm, more like agonising, I heard my right arm break, didn’t I? Saw it happen. I saw mom’s intestines slashed open as she protected me from that murderer. The Red that embraced me that day, mom protected me that day. Protected me with all her red, a covering on my tiny body, a protective layer. I hugged every part of that Red, even the part that covered the walls. This murderer ran away after that, I’ve been noisy in alleyways before too, cried my lungs out that night. The people called the cops, they called dad. Dad. He dragged me away from Red, from Mom.

Since then, I found this world to be funny. Inhuman humans all around us, right? It’s almost as if people were candy since then. However, I lived even after that night. I studied, became an artist. As a matter of fact, my most expensive paintings have the common colour, Red. It’s a feeling of protection, a warmth, I feel with it. Being around Red makes me feel like I’m around Mom. I loved her and she loved me, so much so that even after having her entrails slashed, she protected me, every part of her body protected me.

My life wasn’t easy, it took a while to get my violent tendencies out. I had huge anger issues. They left after a lot of work. Painting became a vent out, Red became home. My home was in Red. No wonder I kept searching for it everyone. They all have it, don’t they? That feeling that Red fills me with. The place I belong. I’m tired, I’m just going to sleep now. Sometime between my nap, a dish was slid in, I didn’t bother getting up, my muscles ached. I felt like my legs were tied with a truck. Immobile. So, I didn’t move. I lay on that so-called bed till sleep came to me.

The next day...

Well they came earlier than I thought they would. I guess I’m not a prison-person, so they want me out, but then again why would I be? Sure, I knew Reality since a very young age. Sure, I was taught Darkness before I learnt Light. Sure, I knew the pain of tears before the joy behind a smile. Sure, I saw things, people never want to imagine, but I’m still me. Alive and fully well.

So like an obedient being I followed the official, I was in handcuffs , which didn’t make sense, but who cares, I get to go back to my life. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do with Jason too. He’s probably getting out right now too. I walked past several compartments like mine, grey, dull, lifeless. Some induced malice, some felt empty. I didn’t see any of my co-prisoners, but all the cells bore a name, so I’m pretty sure they were in there. In the darkness. Do they get that terrible food every day? In the morning I got to inspect what my fellow wrong-doers are fed, I’ll be honest, food here is utter hell. 

This place, its ‘Kokuhyo’, this facility houses a lot of people.More than 417 inmates according to the 2016 report. It has always been under covers, this place. A person sent to Kokuhyo, speaks volumes about them, but it’s a regular prison too. It has its anomalies, but eventually it’s a prison. I wonder why they got me here, though. Distance, I guess, it’s close to that coffee house. If you think Kokuhyo, is in the heart of the city, no it’s not actually. It’s just that I love that cafe, even though it is a bit in the outskirts, which is why Jason and I ended up there. 

Anytime now, is what I was thinking, but a man in a suit came up to my official. He said something really softly and the official simply nodded. 

“Yunita, you’ve gone to that coffee place with 4 guys previously too, correct?”This guy in the suit, he’s probably the lawyer. “Yes,” I affirmed. Like I said, previously, I love the cafe and hence the location’s never really differed. 

“Let me ask you something, for curiosity’s sake, did the successor always surpass the predecessor? You’re boyfriends, I mean.”

“Not really. My first was my favourite, till last night, that is.”It was a bit of a private question, wouldn’t you say? But he had the guts to ask, so I wanted to reward that courage. 

“Did you know their names?”

“Yup, each and every one”

“Did they appear tasty at first sight?”

Jeez, this guy! Lawyers! Like I get that I’m meant to be honest to you people, but what on Earth? How all that was relevant didn’t make sense to me! “Look, mister, if they didn’t look tasty, if they didn’t appeal to me, if the presentation wasn’t satisfying, why on Earth would I eat them?!”This guy was getting on my nerves! Who on Earth does he think he is questioning my appetite?! Like, back off!

“Forgive me, if that was rude, it’s just that very few people go ahead and actually eat their boyfriends. I had a word with your father, he’s well informed of the state of your psyche. Lastly, Jason, you’re last dinner, was saved. Severely wounded, yes, but he’s alive. Your initial exposure to trauma was taken into account but I am, very sorry.”

He seems nice enough now, but what on Earth is he saying, again?! My puzzled expression probably gave him the hint.

“Kokuhyo, Prisoner 182/Yunita, you’ve been here a week, unconscious though. We had your psychological state tested by our trusted medics, I’m afraid, you’re love for eating people isn’t a part of sanity. Charged with the death of 4 young men, more like consumption of 4 young men, you’re sentenced to death.”

Oh! That’s right! It’s wrong to them to have human flesh. I was taught this when I tried to eat my hand after mom’s death. Dad took me to the doctor regularly after that. I do not get it, these people, it’s saddening, how can you not eat people who look so tasty? Now, I’ve done it. 

I wonder, when they do kill me, will I also release the same Red as mom. Will it be just as powerful? Just that warm? Will my final painting be prettier than what mom painted on those walls. My mother, whose colour made me a painter, can I surpass her?

“Oh, Yunita, your paintings were all left in the possession of your father, except the ‘Night at the Theatre’. I’ve personally purchased that. It is....magnificent. Maybe next time, you want to stick to the Red on the palette than the one on your plates.”The lawyer spoke, and then he gave me a very nostalgic smile, like the one mom gave as she lay on my knees while I, with my back against the wall, sat, terrified, mystified and alone. Maybe it’s in Death, when you see it before you, even if it’s your own or someone else’s, a smile becomes a thousand times prettier. 

Knowing that, this is probably my last smile, the last time my lips are capable of making this shape, I returned him a smile too. Probably, mine was warmer.