02-05-2023, 07:58 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-05-2023, 07:59 PM by William Blacke.)
[CW: reliving trauma]
A combination of drink and anger had meant that Bill had hardly cared when the constable had handcuffed him and taken him to the police station. But once he was in there and charged, once the constable led him down the corridor of cells especially, a sense of dread settled in. Terrible dread that pressed the air out of his lungs and seemed to make it impossible to expand them again. And it had nothing to do with an angry Lottie and kitchen utensils. It made him shrink to the point where the constable seemed large and bulky with a firm had on Bill’s shoulder, and Bill a small boy who wanted to cry for his mother. He recognized the smell of the stale air in the corridor.
The heavy metal door shut him in with a bang. He was as alone as he had been some forty years ago when the door slammed shut, and he first took in the dim cell, the small, high window with metal bars, the cold white tiles on the walls. The silence echoed off of them and buzzed in his ears. It deafened him. Occasionally he could hear a shout or a bang somewhere else in the building and he jumped. Then when the noise had died, he longed for it. Instead the suffocating silence would creep back in and there was nobody else.
It was cold. He walked to the bed and sat down. He took the rough woollen blanket and wrapped it around his skinny shoulders to keep warm but the movement hurt his back and he dropped it. There was no comfort in it anyway. He pulled his legs up to hug himself, then realized he was too big.
Bill got up. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t in prison. Just in a police cell. His parents were dead. It had been a bar fight. He’d be out soon. He’d be out. It wasn’t long.
He began to pace. He felt jittery. Was he cold? Was it the drink? He needed someone. He walked over to the door and reached for the lever, but changed his mind. Pulling it for no reason was punished. He was afraid of it. He was always afraid. Afraid of big hands that grabbed him and dragged him along. Afraid of being left in his cell. Afraid of remembering the look on his parents faces. Afraid that they would never want to see him again. Afraid of sleep. Of empty time stretching out in front of him. Of not doing his job right. Of his boss. Of his children. Of people. Of this place. He turned and began to pace again, faster. It was the drink messing with him. It was making him feel disoriented, making it hard to tell the difference between then, and later, and now, and then.
Suddenly he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned, paced back to the door and pulled the lever. His heart was racing.
A combination of drink and anger had meant that Bill had hardly cared when the constable had handcuffed him and taken him to the police station. But once he was in there and charged, once the constable led him down the corridor of cells especially, a sense of dread settled in. Terrible dread that pressed the air out of his lungs and seemed to make it impossible to expand them again. And it had nothing to do with an angry Lottie and kitchen utensils. It made him shrink to the point where the constable seemed large and bulky with a firm had on Bill’s shoulder, and Bill a small boy who wanted to cry for his mother. He recognized the smell of the stale air in the corridor.
The heavy metal door shut him in with a bang. He was as alone as he had been some forty years ago when the door slammed shut, and he first took in the dim cell, the small, high window with metal bars, the cold white tiles on the walls. The silence echoed off of them and buzzed in his ears. It deafened him. Occasionally he could hear a shout or a bang somewhere else in the building and he jumped. Then when the noise had died, he longed for it. Instead the suffocating silence would creep back in and there was nobody else.
It was cold. He walked to the bed and sat down. He took the rough woollen blanket and wrapped it around his skinny shoulders to keep warm but the movement hurt his back and he dropped it. There was no comfort in it anyway. He pulled his legs up to hug himself, then realized he was too big.
Bill got up. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t in prison. Just in a police cell. His parents were dead. It had been a bar fight. He’d be out soon. He’d be out. It wasn’t long.
He began to pace. He felt jittery. Was he cold? Was it the drink? He needed someone. He walked over to the door and reached for the lever, but changed his mind. Pulling it for no reason was punished. He was afraid of it. He was always afraid. Afraid of big hands that grabbed him and dragged him along. Afraid of being left in his cell. Afraid of remembering the look on his parents faces. Afraid that they would never want to see him again. Afraid of sleep. Of empty time stretching out in front of him. Of not doing his job right. Of his boss. Of his children. Of people. Of this place. He turned and began to pace again, faster. It was the drink messing with him. It was making him feel disoriented, making it hard to tell the difference between then, and later, and now, and then.
Suddenly he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned, paced back to the door and pulled the lever. His heart was racing.
