Headcell: Part II

"The journey of a man struggling to retain his sanity in a world dominated by an evil, inhuman society."

Once they had reached the end of the tunnel of hell and entered into the light, what the Prisoner and his gaurds saw was both awe-inspiring and horrific, in equal measure. The interior of Block 13 seemed big enough to comfortably house an army of giants; the ceiling seemed to stretch into all infinity, such was the vastness of the space. The Prisoner recalled hearing rumours of how concealed catwalks far above were apparently full of crack-shot snipers who were always ready to fire, if and when things got completely out of control. It hadn't happened yet, however. The snipers were simply the reformers with the means of instant exctinction, as well as the skill to use them. The Warden's dark theory of giving the prisoners the illusion of choice; the freedom to end their addictions once and for all, by themselves or with help, was understood by the imaginary (or perhaps not) snipers more than anything.

In the center of the room was a single row of huge individual cells, which stretched as far as the eye could see. It felt like being inside a neverending underground railway. If you walked in without knowledge of the prison's function, one would assume the facility had been built to breed giant parakeets; the cells resembled gargantuan birdcages. The Prisoner had been in the cages so many times, for so long, that he knew their dimensions off by heart; thirteen feet high, sixteen feet across and solid titanium bars eight inches thick. Thirteen by six by eight; anger by hopelessness by loneliness. It was the perfect mental anagram for the most imperfect state of mind. Inside the cells themselves were only the most basic of amenities; a single bed, a lone chair, a porcelain chamber pot. Holes were cut into the floor by the cell doors for the disposal of waste. Surrounding the cells were tables and chairs for gaurds to sit in as they watched you tear yourself apart inside.

The walls outside the cells were all completely bare, save for the loudspeakers built into the concrete. The sound system was specifically designed so that everything which came out echoed and reverberated around the walls, so that you felt as though you were hearing whatever was being said right inside your very head, Underneath each speaker was a doorway, but to where it led was anyone's guess. Only the guards knew, for it was their job to stamp out all vice efficiently. The Prisoner had never seen anybody enter through those doors who came back out again. But then again, most people who entered Block 13 never came back out again. Apart from the Prisoner of course, for he was its never-ending special case.

All around the men there were the inevitable sounds of screams, shouts and cries for mercy. But the strange thing was that the gaurds were not responsible for the suffering, unlike prisons of the past. As the group passed one cell, the Prisoner caught a glimpse of its inhabitant lying on the floor, sobbing deliriously. He kept looking up and shouting to the heavens. The floors of the cell were dirty with vomit, and an unbearable stench hung heavy in the air. A shining bronze plaque on his cell read "Christian Elmsworth, drinker". From what the Prisoner could see, Christian's vices had an unbearable grip on him, judging from the broken man lying weeping on the hard concrete floor. Tears and sweat ran all over his body, forming a small puddle all around him. The Prisoner remarked to himself how Christian was one of those few left who still clung to the old ways, judging from his speech.

"Please God, help me. Why hast thou forsaken me? Why God, why? Please help me, please help -- "

But the raving man's speech was abruptly cut off by a steely voice shouting at him from outside the bars. Its owner hugged the outside of the cell, moving around in circles. The other two guards behind him stood back, observing. If those snipers above existed, surely their weapons were at the ready now. This was the type of Block 13 inmate that the Warden allowed to be pushed beyond their breaking point. The gaurds surrounding Christian's cell continued with the torture, their ringleader carrying on his tirade. That voice of steel grew ever harder with each sentence.

"YOUR GOD CANNOT HELP YOU! He does NOTHING! He shall not end your suffering until you help yourself, help yourself out of the world of darkness and pain!"

But the rant continued without break, and the gaurds looked at each other. 

"O Lord, please, please......give me strength......A SIGN.....OF......STRENGTH!"

The gaurd raised his finger, as though to try and silence him. His face was getting redder and redder.

"Elmsworth..."

"FROM.....THE.....DEPTHS...."

"Elmsworth!"

Christian seemed unfazed, no matter what was screamed at him.

"I CRY TO YOU.....O LORD!"

The finger rose again.

"ELMSWORTH!"

Then, the hard-as-nails voice came out in its fullest force. This was the voice of a man with serious power, and a man who knew exactly how he should use it. But, like every officer in Block 13, just because he knew how to use it, didn't mean it was the correct thing to do. He drilled into Christian mercilessly as he lay shaking and gibbering on the floor. Sanity had been crushed now, what was to come next was likely the brutal re-wiring of Christian's psyche.

"No Lord exists here apart from that which lives inside yourself! GOD IS A FIGMENT OF THE IMAGINATION!  You must take control of your humanity!"

Christian didn't respond at all, choosing instead to weep even more wildly. His crazed wails could still be heard as the Prisoner's group walked away. He was unsure were his cell was, it had been some time. The gaurds knew the way, for it had never changed, and like the world of vices itself, stayed very much the same no matter what time had passed. The lights along the ceiling and walls were the milestones of this strange, repeated journey towards the dreaded cell. That cell had been the scene of countless failed reformations, almost too many to count. The Prisoner treated it as his habitat, and like his addiction it was something he felt was central to himself, as well as something that he liked to believe he was in control of. It encaged him, concealed him from society and through its bars, lay the freedom of mind and body. But he had never reached those stages.

Deywun began speaking as they passed what must have been (and quite probably was) the thousandth cell. He took his hand off the Prisoner and pointed just ahead of him. 

"That's the one. Your second home."

Those few words echoed ominously in the Prisoner's mind. No matter how many times he had been here, they never failed to send a slight shiver up his spine. It was a reminder not just of how far his trip into hell had brought him, but of how often he found himself in its very bowels. His cell looked very much the same as he had last seen it; a cage for a monster. A monster made out of pure reality; the truth of addiction. This was the physical confinement, but that didn't matter. These cages were unlike the ones found in regular prisons. These cages represented much more than simple institutionalization and organized violence. They represented the Warden's grim yet logical hypothesis; the unreformed trapped in the world of darkness and eternal pain must be imprisoned inside that very world of darkness and pain, physically speaking. All this for the simple reasoning that the eventual escape from the cell would help them achieve the psychological sensations of pure liberty. 

Deywun had a strange routine when they came near the end of this journey. He always took out his nightstick and began twirling it around like some kind of magician. He also became a lot more joyful, as though he relished the challenge of trying to reform the Prisoner once and for all. One had to give him credit for his perserverance; all the psychologists and therapists of the world had been unable to help the Prisoner before, even with resortion to the extremes of shock therapy, lobotomy and brain-altering drugs. None of these had any effect whatsoever. The medical communities had been initially astounded, then quickly became afraid. This is what sent him here that very first time, however long ago that had been. Whenever one profession reaches their knowledge's limits, they send the problem off to be dealt with elsewhere.

They were right up against the cell now. Deywun and Deytoo stood aside, as though to allow the moment to sink in for the Prisoner. Another ritual to be done, he thought with little emotion. Deytoo walked up the main sliding door leading into the cage and producing a bunch of keys, proceeded to unlock it. The loud clanking, clicking sounds echoed and reverberated all around. Meanwhile, Deywun had sat down on one of the desks, watching intently. The other prisoners didn't bother looking up, either napping or lost in deep stupor. Every time he came here, there were nothing but new faces, yet the reaction was always exactly the same.

Deytoo finally slid the door open, and turned to the Prisoner. Both he and Deywun were getting  bored fast now. Deywun put his nightstick back onto the equipment belt and stood up. Nodding at Deytoo, he moved towards the Prisoner and took him by the arm. Then, leading him gently, they began walking towards the cell. The Prisoner turned to the gaurds.

"Here we go again. Another three days and nights."

Deywun prodded him in the shoulder.

"Firstly, only speak when spoken to. Secondly, indeed, here we go again. I have no faith you'll get through this, but as always we shall give you another chance to prove yourself. The only thing you've proven to us so far is how little this process changes you. Perhaps I'm wrong."

The Prisoner turned.

"What is wrong lies not just with me, but the world as a whole. Vices have inflicted misery on men since the dawn of time, the only difference between me and you is that I'm human."

"Excuse me?"

"Humanity has its faults. Those who are perfect, or believe themselves to be so, are therefore not human. You have erased your identity, but your identity remains inside you, waiting to be unleashed."

With that, Deywun took the Prisoner and shoved him against the bars; the cold hard iron felt like being hit with a sledgehammer. Had the cells' electric cages been activated,  both men would have been fried. Despite the scene unfolding before him, Deytoo did nothing, he was well used to these brief little outbursts now; the entire thing was regular as clockwork. Deywun had his nightstick out and spoke lowly, dangerously, his voice oozing authority.

"My identity belongs to the State. The State owns all identities, for all men are equal. Some are simply more equal than others, but that's the point. Whatever remains inside is simply bestial. The exact same goes for you and all the other unreformed."

A heavy silence hung for a while. All that could be heard was the echoing vast emptiness of the space surrounding the cells, until Deytoo cleared his throat and spoke clearly. He pointed to the open cell door.

"Sir, this unreformed is one minute past the scheduled internment time. The Warden won't be happy with us; later his punishment can, and will, continue."

Deywun turned and nodded in agreement. He pulled the Prisoner away from the bars and shoved him through the door. Blocking the exit while Deytoo searched through the keys. He found the right one and, in a flash, was over at the door. Before the Prisoner could even stand up, the door had been slammed over and locked. Deywun and Deytoo stood outside. One was triumphant, the other was simply indifferent. But both knew it was a job well done.

The Prisoner sighed and dusted himself off. He went to the small bed and sat down. Despite the inescapability of his condition, he was still one to appreciate the little things in life; such as a bed for the night. Or day. One could never tell during an addiction; time simply became non-existent, what remained existent was existence itself. Like Deywun and Deytoo over there, the Prisoner pondered. Neither of them existed any longer, they were just another part of the place. The Prisoner decided it was best to try and continue on the tradition, despite how much it bored him. The tradition of another tradition, albeit a nastier one.

"What now?"

"Now is night number zero. You know the rest."

"How much longer are you here to pretend you can still intimidate me?"

Deywun looked at his wristwatch, sounding more businesslike than ever now.

"A further three minutes, and then you shall hear his announcement, and spend night zero alone. Tradition is never broken."

The Prisoner decided a little smirk was in order here. It was always his best defence against their arrogance.

"Like my vices."

Deywun and Deytoo looked at each other pointedly. Deywun spoke firmly.

"The way shall be found this time."

The Prisoner nodded. He had certainly had that one before, countless times. Walking in circles around the cell, he lapsed into quiet thoughtfulness. The gaurds did the same, and there was nothing but the sound of silence. A full minute passed by without a single word being uttered amongst the group. More groups of prisoners and gaurds passed by. In the distance there was a scream. The Prisoner wondered if it was Christian acting up again, but banished the thought. It mattered very little if he was still suffering, for everybody here was part of the grand pain game; physically, mentally, emotionally, sometimes even all three. The silence in this place amplified the pain. Nothing moved.

Suddenly, Deywun stood up and stretched. He looked around and, tapping Deytoo on the shoulder, indicated they should go. Deytoo nodded and rose. Both men turned to the Prisoner, who simply sat on his bed, staring into space, hearing but not looking. Lowering his head, he saw the guards waiting for something. He allowed himself that smirk again.

"Shall we bother with that old goodbye and good luck dialogue?"

Deywun stared at him, not appearing to hint at anything.

"What point does one see?"

The Prisoner shrugged.

"Very little. All of us know the outcome, it has never changed."

Deytoo had been walking away, but then he came back. Turning round and standing still, he addressed the Prisoner.

"Why can't it change now?"

"Because you repeat upon repetition, both of you."

Both gaurds remained silent a while. Eventually Deytoo cleared his throat,  gritting his teeth, though in anger or regret the Prisoner was unsure. 

"Don't be so sure."

Deywun checked his watch again, and looked at the Prisoner.

"Abandonment is part of our process. His announcement shall begin shortly."

Before leaving, Deywun motioned toward someone in the shadows. He told them to come forward. Out came a lone gaurd. Deywun pointed at the Prisoner. Nodding, the guard made his way to the desks and sat down. He would be there all night. Or day. Time didn't exist in this place. The Prisoner watched Deywun and Deytoo walk briskly away. Neither of them looked back. They never said when they'd return exactly, but this place's system functioned like the very vices it fought against; unpredictable but always there, always waiting, always dangerous. He sighed and lay down on the bed. He tried closing his eyes to be somewhere else, but realized soon that what he imagined was where he already was. 

It was then that the overwhelming urge to vomit struck him. He knew how to handle this though, for it was a common occurrence, even in the outside world. He got up from the bed and, kneeling over the tiny chamber pot close to the bed, emptied his stomach's contents into the plain white porcelain. Meanwhile, a series of familiar claxons rang out. The Prisoner, still weak and nauseous, managed to raise his head with interest. He saw the gaurd at the desk absorbed in work, scribbling away earnestly with a pencil.

It was time to hear the Warden again.  Despite the neverending banality of life in general, one thing that never remained the same here were his announcements, preaching the importance of the State's doctrine, the evils of vice and the immorality inside every unreformed's soul, which had to be vanquished swiftly before they suffered the ultimate imprisonment, far worse than what was here. It was when the man himself finally began speaking that the sickness arose again. The Prisoner retched again as those first few words boomed into the air all around him.

"Ladies, gentlemen, all unreformed. You have been brought here to endure the unendurable. You have all become bottomless wells of immorality and self-destruction. But that all changes now and forevermore. I am going to mold you into the reformed. I am your guiding light out of the darkness. Salvation of mind and body lies here, with me."

There seemed to be more screaming in the distance. Judging from their pitched frenzy, the Prisoner believed it firmly this time to be Christian again. The rumple of boots on concrete came and went. Shortly afterwards, the cries ceased. The speech didn't though.

"What we teach here, what we enforce into you whether one likes it or not, is a set of principles. The principles of discipline and willpower; the two keys to unlocking the chains which have fallen on you all. This process is short, but don't underestimate us; it shall be perhaps the most difficult thing you've ever done."

The vomit was still coming, but now in short heaves and not long, unbroken chains. The Prisoner knew exactly what had been its root cause; the long-term effects of not getting the fix he so needed. Powers of vices ranged to several unpleasantries, but one of the key things was the dependency they placed upon you. To not maintain it, to not nurture the very thing which ate away at you, spelt sickness. Despite his vulnerability, the Prisoner listened to the Warden ardently.

"Seeing its inherent difficulty, there are of course the easier options. We offer two alternate forms of salvation, one for the weak and one for the strong. Those who take the easy option shall be lost forever. True freedom and exctinction of your demons is achieved through sheer strength. If you possess it, you shall succeed."

Something passed by the Prisoner as he slumped over the chamberpot. He didn't have to look up, he knew what had happened. That synchronized clomping on the floor, the menace in the sound, the way it rushed past. The guards must have been busy tonight. Prisoners like Christian only came around once in a while, but that didn't mean they went unprepared. The Warden continued droning on.

"Look around you, see the officers. These noble men and women have become forces of change for the State. What they shall do is force you to force yourself to help yourself. The realization of the hell you live in is key to your ultimate transformation. What the State has bestowed on me is necessary for its continuation, as well as yours. So, bearing that in your cells, rest now. Prepare for worse to come."

With that, the claxon sounded once more and the Warden's voice cut abruptly out. It also marked the last of the Prisoner's stomach lining entering the bowl. It stank his entire area, and he lamented how his life post-addiction was perfectly summed up with that shining bowl of pale yellow bile. Allowing himself a short while to feel better, the Prisoner stood up carefully and, gripping it by the handles, walked over to the door. He looked up at the gaurd, who was still working steadily away. His voice was hoarse, and it was a struggle to speak above a whisper.

"Empty, please."

The gaurd stood up and, sighing, walked over. He reached the cell and kneeled down, unhooking a single key from his belt. Hunkering down, the Prisoner slid the bowl towards him. The gaurd opened a small slot in the iron bars, similar to a pet door for cats or dogs in the outside world. He reached through the opening and grabbed the bowl by both handles. Instead of being repulsed by the vicious smell, the gaurd said nothing nor even hinted at the slightest digust. It was just another job, another part of the reformation process; the withdrawal symptoms. The Prisoner looked up at him.

"Just the beginning. Expect a lot more on the way, sir."

The gaurd nodded and poured the foul contents down the floor hole. He then walked over, placed the bowl on the floor and slid it back through to the Prisoner with his foot. The shoes were black, polished, slick. Not a speck of dirt could be seen on them, nor a single scuff mark. Order was the bread and butter of the reformed classes. The Prisoner realized he, and others like him, were its scum and dirt. 

He made that short journey from that small compartment back to the bed in the same cold realization as countless times before. Placing the bowl on the floor and kicking it away from him, he lay down and gazed up into space. The ceiling was so far up that all above was pitch black, giving one the impression the walls stretched into infinity, up to the stars. The only "stars" the Prisoner could see were the bright amber lights that burnt 24/7. In amongst them were those snipers, if they existed. Their sights were fixed, their rifles cocked, their motives clear and concise. 

Three days and nights, beginning now. Could the millionth time be the charm? The Prisoner would have to wait and find out. Find out what route to take. Should he become indecisive, those possibly real snipers would answer his questions and relax his mind for him, with a razor-sharp silver bullet to the head. At the very least, it'd be a quick physical death. In here, life and death were the same thing; an identical state of being, all unreformed share the same general symptoms; no emotion, no drive and tiredness make them little more than empty hollows that may breathe, talk and walk like normal reformed outside, but which are completely gone inside.

The Prisoner was one of these walking dead. He had his emotions turned off long ago, on the night when his demons first came for him. The cell's bars all met at the same spot at the top of the cage, and the Prisoner remembered how he passed the time his first night here by counting them all until he drifted to sleep. Each bar, to him, represented the doubtless, countless people who had been here before him. He was here so often that the long line led right to him. Until the very day he died, he may still be in the cell. The only change would be that he would be taken out of there physically lifeless.

All these thoughts rushed in and out of his mind like worker bees in a busy factory. He glanced down once more at the porcelain bowl. For some reason, the withdrawal routine tonight felt different, a lot harsher. The previous vomiting times had all felt accepted and normal, but tonight's hit was worse than ever before, from what the Prisoner could remember. Was it time to allow the process to really sink in? Was it time to participate? Did these gaurds and their Warden know something new?

Whatever the answers were and no matter how repetitive the process became, the Prisoner grudgingly realized one thing; the Warden had been very right. His words re-entered his mind as he drifted off to sleep. Night number zero was official.

There were indeed going to be much, much worse times ahead.

Author's Note

Is the prison being described vividly enough or is there too much detail? Does the character of the Prisoner seem realistic? Is the reformation process outlined clearly enough?