Unraveled

Cool ridges dig into the soft flesh of the hip with every disturbance. The sack’s rough skin rubs limbs raw. In the distance, a clock chimes, signally another day.

Sweaty palms meet cold metal with strained effort. Eyes take in the familiar slate blue, bolted panels all around. No justice in sight. At the other end of the box, curtains billow at the barrier to the unknown.

Panels soak in extreme tepidity. Crests dig in, tattooing themselves onto vulnerable flesh. The brightness streaming in teases a better day. Rain would be more honest.

The doors in the rear mocks, masquerading as a path to freedom. A tiny string is caught in the threshold, flowing in the wind. It refuses to come inside, knowing the fate of all things collected. Only once time resumes will it feel the pull.

A resounding ring bellows. The pull is immediate, a call to something illicit.

Pain radiates from the center at another sudden stop, yet the bruises never come. There’s never any proof of the incidents; does that mean they never happened? Silvery light streams from the feigning gateway to release, contradicting the reality of the moment. There’s no more amnesty in this moment than the last.

Doors burst open to a sea of fear echoing cries; movements quick, like they’ve been rehearsed for years. In a way, they had. A foul stench fills the lungs—wrongness. Wind lashes the skin as innocence is destroyed. Screams cease, pricks at the eyes from the catastrophe. The white light has come to collect. But so has the blue vessel. Like a pirate, it steals the night.

Burlap skin scratches on softening pillars. Relief is nowhere to be found under their burden. Once again, the doors become comedic relief in the steel casket. This process has been repeated time and again.

A bell tolls.

Yanking, pulling, foul floating, more weight on gouged legs. The cord grows stronger the further it goes—enjoying deliverance from its captor. Each day it grows, while the performance takes an ever-deeper toll on the main act.

Drifting through space and time, collecting satchels and bumps made of impurity. Every peak burrows deeper into the cavity—chest flailing as ribs fracture. Breathing becomes labored, eating impossible from the start. Tacky hands shakily push away the source of agony with little success.

Lacerated legs leaking. Durable rope pulls further away, faster each day.

The day of reckoning approaches.

Lacerations turn to perforations. The limbs seem to disintegrate after that. They flee from torment. The mountains no longer produce pain. Suffering succumbs to finality.

The cable draws taut.

Nothingness. Newness. Bliss.

Somewhere in a room a child cried, for their favorite toy had died.