Creative Writing

5 May 2017

I felt expelled and exiled, sitting in a room filled only with a bed. White walls which painted no imagination, no hope just emptiness; yet they still assured me I was meant to be here. Every day was the same as the last, every memory I captured had slowly escaped. I was considered dangerous, vile and out of control; these words constantly surrounded me, swirling around in the echoes of the halls. 15 years I have been here, and still not once has my voice box being strained.

Everyday new comers are filling the halls with recent experiences, these are the only colour these halls ever hold, the only colour we are ever able to grasp and use to paint our own ideas of community; they enable us oldies to once again imagine. Soon enough the halls go back to plain white and emotionless passages and so to do my imaginations, the images that i had held slowly fade over and over again until i am left with nothing.

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This only reminded me of what was familiar.

I have no sense of direction, I am bound by these walls, both physically and mentally, I am isolated from a community I wasn’t sure I even wanted to belong to now, and it was daunting to think of what these walls were hiding from me. Questions are going through my head constantly, trying to reassure myself that I don’t belong here, but I am stuck in a routine I think will never end. I feel like shouting and screaming who do you think I am, you say you know me but how can you say when you are labelling me from presumptions previously made!

Accusations are painting my future, these horrible words they use to describe me are making me go insane. It’s hard to hold any positive thoughts, let alone thoughts without anything to support me. I am told each day, this is good for me, being treated with masses of drugs, plain surroundings and vile descriptions or presumptions, and somehow I believe this is just a way to keep me here for good. I am no longer free to belong, such a simple word but when used in correspondence to my life, all of our lives it creates endless opportunities I should be open to, we all should be open to.

I am angry and frustrated, why don’t they believe me, why don’t they give me a chance, and stop describing me in such odious ways. If they want me to be vile, dangerous and out of control then all they have to do is continue with ‘the routine’ I am bound by. I have been here for 20 year s now, and in my mind it is 20 years to long; I am impatient, a ticking time bomb ready to explode any moment. Over all the years I always told myself I would be liberated someday, where nothing will be held against me, I will once again fit in with society.

But as these days turn into months and then years, this sense of freedom is slowly evading me. Freedom once was the only pessimistic thought that raged in my mind. Pessimism was keeping me sane, but now it is like a bug eating at my insides, tearing my sense of humanity and dignity away from me, until I feel as if I have nothing left to fight for, nothing worth living for. I was once told I would be free someday, that I belonged here for a reason. I stayed sane for 20 years, but like all the others 20 years was a year that marked a transformation into what we were once thought to have been.

Those words that were once only presumptions and accusations had turned into my life; I was now vile, dangerous and out of control. All the humanity and dignity had slowly been shattered like a broken mirror; I was a lifeless body which only sought after vengeance. Freedom had vanished, so too did hope, I now belonged to something at first I never really wanted to belong to. Throughout all of the years I believe I was driven by the thought that someday I would belong, never did I believe that I would have succumb to such a level of belonging.

Each day I not only plot revenge but I practice revenge. I scream in such an ear piercing way, so to as to burst eardrums, I use depraved actions to inflict pain on people society call innocent, but I call guilty! They are guilty of keeping me here for superfluous reasons, until I gave them a motive; I want them to feel some of the pain I have dealt with for over 20 years. These gruesome actions paint my imagination; it is what I have to resort to, to feel free again.

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Creative Writing. (2017, May 08). Retrieved November 16, 2019, from https://newyorkessays.com/essay-creative-writing-3/
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