She is in prison within the prison…it’s often referred to as Solitary Confinement or Segregation.
Short Story / Solitary Confinement
She inhales the sterile aroma of the recently scrubbed corridor as she stands in front of a bright pink metal door with a twelve-by-four inch opening in the lower center of it. The opening reminds her of the library book return drop slot in elementary school. Her hands are secured behind her back with steel wrist restraints. A starched orange uniform hangs loosely on her body, yet somehow feels confining in itself. Her ankles, bound by similar restraints, are rudely reminded of their presence by the blisters already beginning to form there. She has been told the forced separation by confinement from the only thing that has ever freed her is now her only salvation. She stands there, immobilized, frozen, using all of her distorted beliefs to deny she is supposed to be there. She is jittering, twitching, the contradictions overwhelming her.It seems a long time passes before the familiar clink, clank and rattle of the door grudgingly rolling open along its track resigns her once again to the claustrophobic parameter of the cell. As she enters the cell she is hindered by tediously small steps, careful not to further irritate the already painful blisters. The fluorescent lighting in the cell is blinding, biting into every nerve in her body. The cement walls, a pale ivory to dull the bright lights. Two hundred and ninety-three bricks layered one atop the other—if her memory serves correctly the many times she has counted them to pass the time. Straight ahead of her, against the far wall, is a metal bench two feet from the ground with an inch-thick, olive green mattress laid perfectly upon its surface, giving it the deceiving appearance of a bed. There is a single white cotton blanket folded neatly at the foot of it. To her left is a stainless steel toilet, bare of the common padded seat cover. On the floor beside it, there is a roll of thin, course toilet paper. Above and to the right of the toilet is a ceramic basin with a single sliver of hand soap between the shiny steel faucet and the push-button that brings forth the water. Directly above the basin is the proverbial mirror through which she has been told to seek the root of all her troubles. High above the bed, running parallel with the ceiling is a rectangular six-by-one foot bulletproof glass window through which a faint haze of sunshine is penetrating. She is shaken from her observations by the thunderous clamor of the door sealing her fate behind her. The resounding boom echoes through the corridor sending a tremble through her body from head to toe, shaking her to her core. Without being aware of it, her wrist restraints have been removed, and she realizes that she has been unconsciously rubbing her wrists trying to erase any evidence of them having been there. The white tile floor, speckled with what looks like black pepper, is cold beneath her bare feet. The air conditioning is set at an intolerable degree, and all too soon her ankle restraints have stingingly chilled against her skin. She searches the cell for the perpetrating vent and vaguely recalls its location to be in the middle of the ceiling. She looks up and finds it there. She shuffles to the toilet and reaches down for the roll of toilet paper. She unravels a premeditated bundle of it and turns to the basin. She pushes the button and a delicate spray—barely a mist—struggles through the faucet. Her fingers are agile as she dampens the tissue just so, because she already knows that in seven seconds the water will automatically turn off. She turns, armed with the wet tissue, and shuffles to the middle of the cell. With versed determination, she tosses the damp tissue up at the vent. Victorious in her effort, the tissue sticks to the vent with a dull thud. She repeats this process until the vent is sufficiently covered to her satisfaction. In a few moments, the temperature in the cell becomes much more comfortable. Task completed, she shuffles over to the bed, turns and sits down on it then swings her shackled feet up onto the bed. The thin mattress hardly disguises the hard surface of the metal beneath it. She lays her head down and stares blankly at the ceiling. Eventually she closes her eyes and shuts out the bright light, taking with it the rigid appearance of the cell. In the solitary confinement of her mind, she sees her two daughters. Her first born, now seven years old; she has black, straight shoulder-length hair; her shoulders stiff with defiance; her dark brown sad eyes are cast downward. She is angry and ashamed of her mother. Her second born, now six years old; she has brown, spiraled, curly hair bobbing at her waist; her eyes are light brown, glittering with laughter and shaded by thick, heavy, long lashes. She is oblivious of her mother.She awakes, some time later, with a tear trickling down the side of her face. It tingles as it descends into the mass of hair that suffices as a makeshift pillow. The cell is now wrapped in darkness. Gone is the bright light and the faint haze of sunshine that earlier penetrated the cell. In those quiet, dark moments when the silence is deafening, she realizes the only confinement she will never escape is that of her own mind.
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DWVickers reviewed Version 1 -
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I understand your intention to create vividness with adjectives, and perhaps it works for readers more visual than me, but I find it distracting. My attention keeps shifting to the words and away from the image you’re creating. I found the last part – where you shift from describing the woman’s circumstances to describing her thoughts – I found much more satisfying. The interesting thing about a jail cell as a setting for a story (in my opinion) is that it is bare of anything really interesting and so forces the mind to turn inward.
I think the technique of using only a few carefully chosen adjectives that convey a concentrated essence of a place would work better for you. With so many adjectives the essence is lost in the details.
This piece creates a very interesting character. What will you do with her?
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EJSchwartz reviewed Version 1 -
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I like this story a lot. I would suggest that you break it up in to paragraphs though it is too hard to read this way and takes away from the story as you are trying not to lose your spot as your reading. I also would like to know why she is or you are there? Other than that I can find no fault with this at all. I would like to read more. This intrigues me.
Good luck!
Curtastrophe reviewed Version 1 -
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“She stands there, immobilized, frozen, using all of her distorted beliefs to deny she is supposed to be there.” This I believe should be your opening sentence. It in a sense, encapsulates everything I believe you are attempting to explain here. The “She inhales the sterile aroma…” would fit well as a secondary sentence.
“Two hundred and ninety-three bricks layered one atop the other…” This is a depictively gruesome description, but one I’m sure, anyone who’s been incarcerated can relate to.
“of thin, course toilet paper.” coarse
“The air conditioning is set at an intolerable degree…” Of course, so that one will curl up, be sedate, go into hibernation and not cause trouble.
The ending was especially creepy. By that I mean claustrophobic. You openly admit to being incarcinated so I take this as being pretty close to the truth. I have to admit, it’s pretty depressing. But it’ll speak to some people in other ways. I dunno… I gave you high marks anyway.
-Curt
darkworks reviewed Version 1 -
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I loved the way you created visual picture of the setting. It really brought back some memories of friends back a long time ago. You have a gift to weave your words into a tapestry of visual colors.
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