THE WALL
Solitary confinement that is unassuming and self-chosen. That is what he concludes, lying on his bed, sheets reeking of factory. New sheets that are brittle and unwelcoming, a ceiling far above him. Childlike, a new word that enters his head. He feels childlike, so small. Only this time he is alone in solitary confinement, not like his actual childhood. It was far from solitary. He never chose that. It happened as it happened, but he chose this, now. He is sad and he chose it.
No lights are on and the shutters are closed. Absolute dark, total. It’s cold, no window, just the shutter with all its slats. He may as well be outside. Colder. I’d deserve that, he thinks. Traffic hums, foreign voices. The voices might be cursing him, mocking him, may as well be inaudible. Could be alien. They are alien. Maybe I am the alien. He looks at his phone. No reception. No messages. Solitary confinement that is absolute.
He chose to come here because he deserves only this, to be unknown and unrecognised. This is what he wrote in the letter he left her. She begged him. Cried into his shoulder, soft, uncovered arms around his neck. He stood motionless. I am a tree, he whispered inwardly. I am only a tree. I watch and I feel but I am wooden. I do not react. But he feels it now. Her. A year has passed.
He rises from bed, can hear wolves howling but knows these wolves exist elsewhere. One of his walls is completely bare. He stands before it, a large white wall, grey in the dark. Childlike, too small to make an impression. The shutters rattle from a strong gust of wind. He runs his finger over the wall, tracing words, numbers, all the bad things he’s done. He sketches her face with his thumb, both thumbs. He puts his forehead against the wall, against her. They face each other. Her, him. They are both invisible but finally they face each other. He whispers, I’m sorry. She whispers, Please don’t. He hears knocking. A gentle fist on hollow wood. Like the wolves, elsewhere.
He sighs, touches her cheek. She pulls away. She disappears. He sits on his bed again, stares at the wall. Only the words remain now. The words and numbers. So many of them. Terrible words. Terrible reminders. But this is all there is now. He must deal with the terrible words. He must take this time, this sentence, to read them, study them. The reasons. The connotations. No glass and no mirrors. No others, no selves. Just the wall, shutters, the past, and nowhere to hide. It hurts. He closes his eyes because it hurts, but he sees her again beyond the black of his eyelids. Not her as she was, nor her as she is, her as she could be. He sees it clearly. He will get there. But first, the wall.
He stands up, approaches it again. He holds fast, legs spread. He reads in his head, in a whisper, out loud, he screams the words, he repeats, again and again. He will do so until the wall comes down. And it will. He knows it will.
by Maté Jarai
Maté Jarai is from Budapest, Hungary, and now lives in Brighton, UK. He's the author of three poetry collections, 'If We Open Our Eyes The Floods Won't End So Let's Not Do That,' 'Instrumentals,' and Live Authentic Die Far Away,' He has a PhD in Creative Writing from Southampton University and is Founder/Editor-in-Chief of Cephalopress. For more of his writing check out www.iamwendle.com. Follow him on twitter and instagram @matejarai