Trapped

He had lost track of how many days he’d been staring at it, sipping cold coffee from the thermos he’d found on the floor; but he was sure the smudge over the doorknob was a man sitting down. His head cast low, as though reading a book- though his hands were empty. And the longer he stared, the more the smudge seemed to change. Move. The thermos moved to his lips with mechanical rhythm. Every two hours, another thermos. Every four hours, a protein bar. A glass of water.

He had not seen a mirror in weeks, but he could feel his ribs. He could nearly wrap his whole hand around his collar bone.

Every three days, a sedative.

Oh, that adrenaline alarm clock.

As he stared at the smudge, as it turned to face him for the third time since God opened the door, he scraped a thick film from his tongue and spit it onto the floor. Everywhere he looked, his cell was blood and shit. He’d taken to biting into his hands to taste anything but oatmeal. He couldn’t bite too deep, not yet, but the blood washed out the taste of the bottom of the thermos. He hated how the grounds tasted in his mouth, back when he drank faster to please God. He had waited at least an hour and a half. He had counted.

God hadn’t chained him to the wall, and for that he was grateful. The smudge over the doorknob reminded him of that, whispering to him every four hours when he was given his protein bar through the slat in the door.

Whispering, At least you’re not stuck to the wall.

Whispering, Just look at the beautiful cell He gave you.

And he doesn’t want to yell at the smudge. The smudge was the only one that knew he was alive. He waved to it every time it turned to face him. Sometimes, he’d ask it questions. Really, he just wanted to know what happened to its book.

He wanted to know if, maybe, it could talk to God for him?

If, maybe, it could figure out why he was here?

And maybe, he said, maybe get me an extra glass of water? I’ve got coffee grounds stuck in my throat.

But it turned back around, staring into its empty lap; its knees bent at an angle. He had sat like that for the first few days, but now he stood. There was no comfortable way to talk to his cellmate. He had to stand, or else the two couldn’t make eye contact; even if that contact only came a few times an hour. He made a mental note to ask the smudge to stand the next time it turned. Maybe, it would finally talk to him.

He had come into the cell angry.

Furious.

God had worn a mask, and he vaguely remembered being dragged down a long hallway- his skull rattling against the floor. God had thrown him against the wall and punched him in the face, dislodging three of his teeth. One of them broke off in his lip. God locked him in this cell, and he had been so angry. But the smudge had calmed him down.

Whispering, I’m sorry about all that.

Whispering, He takes it a little far sometimes.

The slot in the door opens, followed by the wrinkling of a cellophane wrapper. The granola bar hits the concrete floor, heavy as a brick; he bites into it out of necessity, though they lost their flavor long ago. This one was supposed to taste like Peanuts & Honey, but he gags anyway. The door opens, just a few inches, and a hand collects his empty thermos. It comes back, hours later, rolling a faint cloud from its muddy surface.

“Drink up,” a voice says.

Only, it’s a new voice.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing moves behind the door, but there is something. A faint scratching.

Almost as though it were coming from inside.

Laughter.

He steps back.

The smudge, the greasy stain over the doorknob, is standing up. Facing him.

And the details of his face are just starting to work themselves into place as the laughter trails off. With the faded outline of his right arm, the smudge waves. Each move leaves a trail, like tail lights on a country road. Each word is not so much spoken, as thought. The closer he gets to the door, the clearer everything becomes.

And the first thing he thinks to ask is

What happened to your book?

He doesn’t say it, but the answer comes anyway. He slugs down a gulp of scalding coffee to mask his excitement. He hadn’t talked to anyone in a long time.

What happened to yours?

“That’s not very polite,” he mutters.

The stain raises its hands over its head in a sarcastic shrug.

You should finish it, you know?

“Yeah,” he says, motioning to the door, “a little difficult to do in here, though.” Walking around the cell, tracing his fingers across the bricks for the hundredth time, he says, “Even if I could find a way out of here, there’s still God to worry about. You saw what He did last time.”

He says, “That bastard.”

He tongues the empty spaces in his mouth.

You shouldn’t have fought so hard.

He glances over his shoulder to see the stain.

This place was designed for you.

He walks closer to the smudge.

You’ll learn to love it.

So, the smudge says, inside of his brain, what happened to that book?

He had pondered that question for several hours, after the shock had worn off but before the coffee had diluted every tissue in his body. In his isolation, he could focus on the little things. The countless mistakes. The missed opportunities. The barring himself off, night after night, out of fear. That word seemed so trivial now.

“I was afraid.”

The smudge nods, and turns around.

Good.

“No!”

The smudge kneels, balancing himself as he drifts back into position.

“Talk to me!”

I did.

“Why won’t you anymore?” he asks, why won’t you just help me, one last time?

                        I did.

But I was stupid. I wasn’t paying attention.

And the smudge glances down, glaring into his empty hands- tracing the pages of an invisible novel.

And he rests another cup of coffee on his desk as he closes his office door.