Bound

A short allegorical prose.

   He heard the ticking of the clock as he sat, bound to the chair. Holding him tight against the dry oak were weaves of nylon. His shackles of tightly wound threads rubbed against his skin, burning his flesh at a retarded pace. His head was held aloft and crooked back over the head of the chair. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, of which he could not see. He once had view of the floor, but his head was now fixed to the back of the chair by more rope.

   The room was small and stuffy, with a desk sitting close to his right. In one corner of the room sat a wastebin filled to the top. Assorted wrappers of assortments lined every available space. Under the desk were countless emptied bottles of beer, and assorted piles of clothes. Under his feet was a soft carpet that was blue in colour, and straight woven. He was glad his head was held back, for looking upon the carpet made him ill. Weary and tired, he closed his eyes.

   The clock struck nine, and each chime from the bell echoed through his head. He winced and his body tensed. On the third chime he felt his legs tighten up. He tried to flex his muscles, tried to relieve himself of the pressure building upon his limbs. He began to whimper, and tears formed upon his eyelids. On the sixth chime his arms began to flail about him. He gasped and wept uncontrollably--screaming as his hand hit the corner of the desk nearby. On the ninth chime the binding of his head snapped, sending him and the chair forward into the wall ahead of him. His head smashed against the wood paneling, causing a huge gash and blood. It was there that he lay comatose, unmoving, broken, tired, and wasted.

   When he awoke a few hours later, he found himself wielding clamps and chains about his wrists and ankles. He pulled himself up from the floor, and began to bang upon the now molding oak door.

   It opened, and he sauntered into the milky light.