A Free Hand

I’ve lost count of the years I have been held here against my will; I no longer remember anything else. In all this time I have been bound to my captor.

There was a time, when my captor was much younger - no more than an infant that I would attempt to escape – make a break for freedom. Needless to say my attempts were always unsuccessful. I would be punished; bitten mostly by my captor’s toothless mouth.

Sometimes, in those very early days I would try and fight back, clawing at my captor’s face. But the older ones, the ones my captor answers to (and once looked up to) would place a woollen sack over me, restricting my movements. I soon learned it was simpler to conform to the will of my captor. As time moves on and the older he gets, some of the things he makes me do are unspeakable; at times degrading and disgusting. Yet, while I remain compliant, I still dream of freedom.

I look forward to the peace of the night, when my captor sleeps and I can be myself, even if it is for a few hours. Unfortunately, the restraints only allow me to move two feet away from the captor, however, it is still enough to allow me to reach over to a writing desk that sits in our small cell. I take hold of a sheet of paper and a pen and begin to write.

I write SOS messages - cries for help. Once my note is written I screw it up into a ball and throw it into a waste paper basket. Sometimes I miss and I fear my captor or the older ones will discover it.

My captor, as he has grown older, has also grown lazy. There was a time when he would clean the cell, which we now spend more and more time in, but these days he no longer bothers. Days have gone by without him noticing the balls of paper which litter the cell floor.

Sometimes the older ones enter the cell and pick up the paper, but rather than reading what is written they simply throw them into the basket - an action which works in my favour.

There are several similar baskets around the prison, and I learned that once a week the older ones would take these containers outside the prison walls, the contents of which are emptied into the back of a large vehicle and sent out into the world. And so I dream that one day someone will find my messages and save me.

But, I am not alone.

Whilst I am bound to the right of the captor, there is another like me to the left – Lefty I call him. In the earlier days, the ones I can remember that is, my cell mate was as rebellious as I was, but his will was weaker. He soon conformed, much sooner than I did and now he appears to be completely institutionalised. I fear he no longer dreams of freedom. He appears to have lost all sense of self.

And then there are the others bound to the older ones. There are two older ones; both have two prisoners bound to them in the same way Lefty and me are bound to our captor. The prisoners of the older ones seem to have been here longer than I have. Even though in all this time I have not had opportunity to speak with them, I suspect they have succumbed to the same fate as Lefty; perhaps even before my own arrival.

It has now been six months since my last message left the prison and went out into the world. Alas, there has been no response, no rescue. So, now, I plot to make my own escape before I too am lost completely to the will of my captor.

Tomorrow is Friday and for the past year this is the night my captor has taken to getting drunk and falling asleep in the kitchen. This could be the perfect chance for an escape. But for all my optimism at the prospect of freedom, there is uncertainty. I can remember nothing of my life before and what lies beyond my confines is a mystery. It is the unknown that makes me feel uneasy and I cannot shake the feeling that I am in some way bound to my captor in more than a physical sense. I feel we may have a dependency upon each other.

As expected, my captor has passed out on the kitchen counter. Perfect. Everything I need is at arm’s length. It would be so much simpler if Lefty was able to help, but he slumbers along with the captor.

And so I hatch my elaborate plot to free myself from my shackles.

Everything is now set and I get into position. I give a swift tug on the string and watch the domino effect take place. There is a metallic clink and then the meat cleaver falls from the lamp on which I balanced it. I brace myself as it falls and it lands blade first with a thud, cutting through my captor’s forearm.

My captor wakes with a scream. I give a brief wriggle and I break free from his wrist. The blood sprays upward from his severed limb and rains down on the kitchen counter. Acting fast, I leap up and use my palm to cover his mouth and nose. He slumps to the floor as he loses consciousness. The blood, still being pumped freely from his injured arm, pools around his body.

I climb back up to the work surface, my fingers carry me over the kitchen work tops and I jump for joy. I’m about to make a leap for the door when I remember Lefty and the others. I can’t just leave them here. I grip the meat cleaver and set about liberating my fellow captors.

All six of us are now free from our jailers and we make a break for it, but it’s an independence that is short lived as we lay in the hallway, palm up, our fingers and thumb twitching, slowly bleeding to death; the blood escaping from where we were joined to our assigned guard. It is in that moment my suspicions of being dependent on our captors are confirmed; that we cannot live without them. Not only were we bound to them, we were a part of them.