Someone downstairs is drilling into the wall. I lie back on the mattress and try not to imagine it’s my head being bored into, the shrill scream of metal on plaster resonating through bone and wood alike. This is a Tuesday. Who am I today? I have a become Tuesday. Remember, not all calls will be successful but every call will be charged. Uncertainty flares again upon my belly and I tear off another few layers of skin without a second thought. Suddenly, with the call of an unseen bird commander from the other side of the window, the drill ceases, and the burning stops. The world inside the prison falls entirely silent, and even the leaves beyond the glass cease their slow bobbing dance out of respect for everything that remains trapped within – clawed at, bored at, but never breaking the thinnest of barriers.

• This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 24th, 2007 at 10:30 am and is filed under automatics. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.