The Window

The Window

By Laura Collins

The mountains shivered around me as I climbed higher. The clouds came closer. I looked behind me and gasped at the view. It never ceased to amaze me. The moment was coming closer now, I could feel it. My thoughts changed each time I came here but my actions remained the same. I sat down and reached towards my bad to get the sandwich I would never taste. The shadow fell on the bag and as I inevitably turned, I woke.

The humming of the building startled me as I came to my senses. The restraints felt tighter than normal. I cleared my throat to begin my customary scream but the door opened first. I must have slept longer than normal. He came in, undid the restraints, left a tray of food on the floor and disappeared. I was one of the lucky ones who had a window. Of course the view of the field surrounding the building was destroyed by the thick iron bars. I gritted my teeth and began my morning walk. The walk was twenty lengths of the room.

The room was dingy. One bed, one window, five iron bars on the window, fifty-seven tiles on the ceiling, one door – with seventy-nine scratches and laminated floors. Breakfast was porridge with a “Freaky Friday” twist – a dot of honey that was sinking like the Titanic. I ate meticulously – as always. Dip the spoon in, fill it, let half slide off and fill it again. Eating breakfast took forty-five minutes. In this place, you try to take as much time as possible doing every single little thing so you don’t have to think. Thinking could kill you here.

I don’t belong here. I would never attempt suicide..... I was happy with my life..... I would never attempt suicide..... Life has been Hell since they found me. I had been enjoying my hike up some mountain and hit a slippy patch. The wet grass carried me over the side and apparently it looked like I had attempted to take my own life. The worst thing is though, I keep dreaming about that day.

I can still remember the clouds that, if you squinted, looked like ducks. The soft breeze making my anorak billow around me. The slight weight on my shoulders, that was the rucksack containing my ham sandwich and bottle of water. The scene is always repeating itself in my head. It’s torture, which is why thinking will be the death of me here. Death. It’s a funny thing isn’t it? When you’re living your life, you fear it. When you’re stuck in a room with one window you wish for it.

The doctors came in at the same time, wearing the same blue and white clothes every single day. They say the same words, in the same monotone voices, wearing the same bored expressions. Each day that passed I scratched the door. I’ve been saving counting the springs in the mattress for my birthday because it doesn’t seem like I’ll be getting out of here anytime soon judging by the continuous identical days.

A room with one bed, one window, five iron bars, laminated floors, eighty scratches on the door and a memory that will haunt me until I’m free – from here or from life. Plain porridge on a Saturday and the same clothes, words and expressions from the doctors.

Help me, I’m trapped.