Black Light

In a empty room of no sensation rests a prisoner fighting off encroaching madness.

A mind is a fragile thing. Its definition and composition are based solely on the outside forces acting upon it, as opposed to any independent adherence or coherence. It is not self-sustainable or immune from any inner taint. It is constantly on the verge of destroying itself, kept only in check by the solid reality surrounding it.

And when that disappears, when the mind is left to its own devices, there is very little to do but wait for the inevitable.

And the inevitable result of this is complete disintegration.

I am Caryn, and I am incomplete.

I have been trapped here for seven years. Eight years? The exact number escapes me. Time is fickle in the blackness, and difficult to measure.

My crime, the reason for my imprisonment, was inconsequential, a simple grab for power. I expected defeat of some sort, though most likely in the form of death. The judges decided mercy was the better option.

Each year I despise their mercy more and more.

I am disintegrating.

Not physically, of course. They make certain to keep me healthy. I wake to bread. Sometimes I wake to floods with which to wash myself. With which to fight off pestilence.

Very rarely I will receive a slab of meat. I assume that such a delicacy marks some sort of event. My day of birth, perhaps? Or maybe the anniversary of my imprisonment? For all I know, it could be given to me at random. Every few months, every few years. It’s impossible to tell.

But I like to imagine it is a yearly event, and that is how I count the time. For I cannot use the stars, the sun, the moon. I cannot count the days I cannot see. There is no light down here, and I have been rendered blind.

And with my blindness has slowly come madness. In my black prison, there is nothing to see. Nothing to touch. I am left alone in the void. My mind is left to its own devices, and with nothing to feast upon, it turns upon itself. My moments of lucid thought continously grow shorter and more erratic.

Moments such as these, which had previously been taken for granted, are now hoarded and treasured. I must take advantage of them, in the hopes that by embracing organized thought, it can become as contagious as its opposite, and I can remain sane.

It is a futile hope, but I hope it nonetheless.

And in my hope, I curse. I curse the judges who put me here, but myself as well. Myself more than any other. I had thought I could pay any price, that I had had nothing of value anymore. That my life was inconsequential, my possessions non-existent, and my mind a reflection of both.

I was wrong.

Only by losing it could I realize that it was, indeed, a loss.

And in return, I had received nothing. My grab for power, while technically successful, had been rendered useless.

What use is the ability to control light when I am trapped in a world full only of shadows?

For that was what my gamble had been. Risk everything for even more. What power I could have had, what acts I could have accomplished, had I remained free.

I could have ended wars. Started wars. Created lives and souls and remade the world into my own image. For the world is how we perceive it, and it is perceived with light. Our light. The light of our souls, so often overlooked.

So often forgotten about.

And now I curse myself for something beyond my imprisonment.

I had been so stupid. So ignorant. So blind. Light is in everything, light creates everything, and everything creates light. Especially the soul.

And is not my soul still intact? My mind may be cracked and shattered, my body may be thin and fragile, but my soul is separate from them both.

My soul still casts its own light, and the judges were not fast enough to rob me of my prize.

I close my eyes, and open them anew, and suddenly the world is bathed in white. Where previously there had only been shadows, now everything burned with my rage. My indignation that I should have beenlocked away for so long, so needlessly.

And I shone brighter than ever before. I was the center, the core, the creator, and I demanded freedom.

I laughed. I laughed at the judges who had so blindly thought me trapped. I laughed at those whose false conviction had convinced even me, who could see all, that escape was impossible.

But now I could see, and I drew in the light. I hoarded it, stole it from my surroundings, and turned the world black once more.

Then, with a scream of joy, of rage, and of pain, I unleashed my light at the wall. I unleashed a sun in a single moment, a single beam, and with it sent every destructive thought I had gathered throughout my seven years of imprisonment.

Eight years.

The wall held. Impossibly, it held. The light did not shatter it, did not offer my freedom. Instead, it betrayed me. It rebounded off the wall of my prison, and struck me.

I fell back with a gasp, winded, but not wounded. I had caught the light just in time, let it turn to sparks dancing across me as opposed to a spear punching through me.

And with the dancing sparks, a dim memory returned to me.

A memory of attempting this same thing, this same escape, only to discover that the judges had not been blind. That the judges, through all their devious plotting and scheming, had created the perfect prison.

A prison of mirrors.

Mirrors crafted so perfectly that there was no flaw for my light to exploit. No weakness with which to shatter them.

I began to weep. This had happened before. Seven times before. Or was it eight? And each time I had forgotten. The madness had taken it from me, and had slowly twisted me until I would try again and again.

I was trapped.

As the sparks of light slowed their dance and faded, so did my memory. No matter how hard I grasped at it, it fell through my fingers, and left my mind to devour itself.

I began to scream at the void in helpless fury. Was it not enough for me to be imprisoned? Must I also be constantly fed the same futile hope again and again?

The last sparks faded.

A thick slapping noise sounded throughout my prison. Curious, I groped around blindly until I encountered something warm and soft.

Meat.

An anniversary.

The eight of its kind. Or perhaps the ninth? Time escapes me.

After all, a mind is a fragile thing.