The Prisoner’s Page
The cellmates first spoke when they were both imprisoned in the same cell.
“What are you in for?”
“No good reason.”
“At least you have a reason. I’m in for no reason at all.”
The second, and last time they spoke was years later.
And it was here in that musty cell that these two prisoners, who for reasons that remained mysterious and unbelievable, were locked behind this island fortress. Their faces had sunk into sullen sinews, eyes bulging in whichever direction the wind blew, while their bodies had reduced to skeletal physiques with ailing joints. It had quite a few days since the guard had come with their rations, and though always rancid, now these meals played in their famished dreams as ordinary citizens dream of cake and margaritas.
“Do you have pen and ink…” one asked with great labor.
“Why do you ask,” replied the other with tremendous exhaustion.
“After all these years, I’ve lost count, I feel as though maybe now is as good a time as ever to pen my memoir.”
“Now? At the end?”
“I never expected it to come to this, but now there is no use slacking.”
“Look beneath the bedframe and check beneath the windowsill, across the walls there will be soot, collected after years from all the fires we’ve inhaled through these barred windows.”
When the prisoner had amassed enough soot, he carefully rubbed them into his pinky, and as fine as he could, which was not fine at all, he wrote his tome on a torn-up scrap from his old uniform.
“Would you like some soot as well? To pen your final thoughts?”
“Why would I do that?”
“So that others may remember you after you are gone.”
“You think anyone will remember me when I’m gone? They have already forgotten me as I breathe and rot in this cell. Of what value is my legacy to the next generation? They too will be embittered by their unique strife and to care about my godforsaken self.”
He continued: “Out there, the boiling suns and the freezing winds will rock them with a fury that even our forefathers couldn’t withstand. Why should I worry about this next generation? It’s better to be forgotten by them anyhow, for when they are grown, they will curse us elders for the broken husk that we have bequeathed them. If they only knew, what we inherited wasn’t much better. We’ve been cursed for as long as I’ve breathed.”
The other prisoner sat quietly, respectfully, before returning to writing their opus. “See, I disagree.”
“Why?” he said with a voice that already anticipated derision.
“Because I know that among them, someone, somewhere, will want to learn about me, about us, and what we went through, and how we kept our dignity intact before all the injustices we had. They will want testimonies letting them know that though darkness prevailed, it was always a struggling, silent many who demanded to survive no matter what. As long as their spark remains, the human spirit lives and breathes, and only through that will we conquer all that aims to desecrate us.”
The prisoner continued writing on a scrap of cloth, eventually running out of space before having to tear pieces from their current uniform. He kept writing for days and nights, through cold nights and hot mornings, until he was practically down to wearing nothing, while a thick stack of polyester pages sat next to his restless palms. Soon he was left with no cloth left to write at all. So close to the end of his work, he seemed rightfully frustrated. Then he felt a hand tap him on his shoulder and with a smile he gave him a restock to his writing supply, torn from the sleeves of his uniform.
“Here. Seems like you could use a few extra pages.”
“Thank you–”
“Don’t mention it.”
Those were the last words they ever exchanged.