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A Short Story on the Panopticon
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Heck, I don’t even know where I am or how I got here. All I know is my world has shrunk down to a twelve by fifteen foot cell. Iron bars close off each end, providing me a dull view of a circular brick tower at one end and a wasteland at the other: flat country as far as the horizon, where nothing but weeds grow and crows fly. Even the crows avoid this place. The tower has small windows encircling it, windows that have slatted blinds on the inside. Occasionally, when the sun is behind it, I can see silhouettes moving but cannot make out who it is or what they look like. All I really know is there are people in there watching me.
The last thing I remember before finding myself here is the excitement near the mall. People were running past me and out of the building. There were gun shots and the next thing I knew the lights went out. When I came to, my head was bandaged, my right arm was useless and in a sling and here I was, in this cell. That was so long ago my arm and head are both better. I figured I had been shot by a stray bullet or something, but why I am held captive, I cannot guess. Perhaps they thought I was one of the bad guys or something. But then, why wasn’t I given a trial? Maybe it is because Syria doesn’t have the same laws as back in the States. That’ll teach me to ignore the news before taking a vacation, won’t it?
My cell isn’t exactly what one would expect in a prison, if that is where I am. I must assume I am, because I am trapped and have absolutely no contact with another human being. My cell has a cot with a thin mattress and a lumpy pillow and a scratchy wool blanket. I have one pair of loose-fitting white pants, a pullover shirt (white, too) a pair of white slippers, and two pair of underwear. There is a small writing desk and chair with squeaky legs, a pad of paper and a quill ink pen with a small bottle of India ink. I have used one sheet of paper for little tic-marks to keep track of the days. Four hundred seventy six so far. At this rate, I’ll have to use a second paper after four years.
There is a toilet that flushes automatically, and a sink with running cold water. I haven’t shaved since I’ve been here, and can only take sponge baths. There is one wash cloth and one towel, which I hang over the end of the cot to dry. And there is a square opening in one wall, although it is always plugged up from the other side. Occasionally it will open enough for a tray of food to emerge and then it closes. About an hour later it opens enough to swallow the tray and it closes again. I have placed my ear against the wall to hear gears or pulleys or something, but as long as I am next to the wall, it won’t operate. Only when I am sitting on the bunk will it work. I gave up trying to figure it out a long time ago. I had tried calling out to anyone on the other side, but there is never a word in response.
At first, I was confused. I did not know what, if anything, was expected of me. I did not know what to do or think; and believe me, there is little else to do but think: think about what I have done, or didn’t do, to deserve this fate; think about what the rest of the world is doing, what they are inventing, the new fads that are passing me by. I thought, after the first month or so, that I would go crazy with no one to talk to. Then I decided to sketch: anything and everything. I started out sketching trees. Their branches like arms, their leaves like fingers, their trunks like legs. Trees have so much character. And they never go anywhere. And, I guess, they never say anything. I’ve read about people who have heard what the trees have to say, but it takes all kinds, I suppose. But even trees get old after a while and I really couldn’t think of anything else to draw.
Then I started to write. I love fiction and was pretty good at it once. Fantasy was my thing. Now I am living it and I don’t write about it any more. This is my diary. Or my journal. Whichever you prefer to call it.
When my first note pad ran out of paper, I used a part of my last sheet to write a note and place it on my food try after dinner one day. I sat on the bed and watched it disappear. The note simply said I ran out of paper and could use some more if they pleased. It was a few hours later and the tray appeared with a new pad. I took it and opened it and saw something on the first page: there was a question mark in the center. I put an exclamation mark under the question mark and sent it back with my next meal. I guess it wasn’t real conversation, but the next meal the paper I sent had a line through the exclamation mark and another question mark was underneath. I pondered my next reply for a long time.
When I finally replied, it was a sketch of my cell, the bars and the boring tower. There were no further attempts at communication from them, despite my repeated attempts to strike up some sort of rapport; so I gave that up, too. There is a lot of giving up going on in here, but there is one thing I won’t give up: my confusion. Until, of course, I can ever get out of here and ask questions that actually get a response.
My best guess is that this is some sort of penal institution and this is their way of enforcing self-discipline. I know I am being watched. I know I can’t see my watchers. I can hear others in their cells occasionally, sneezing, coughing, crying, yelling. But these sounds usually stop right away and there is silence again. I wondered what happened to them. Are they still there or have they been moved elsewhere? I once tried calling out to one of them but a loud church bell began to peal and continued for about five minutes. After that, whenever any of us tried, it would peal again for longer amounts. So we gave that up, too.
I start my days with some calisthenics. I figured my body still needed exercise, even though I won’t be going anywhere for a long time. Jumping jacks, running in place, military push-ups (the eight-count type where you drop and do two and get up and repeat that. Each military push-up is really two and getting up and down creates a great workout). I also try to do a form of yoga, stretching and moving slowly in all sorts of positions. Anything to break the monotony.
The human mind is amazing. It is very creative. I have sat on my cot and thought of the various ways I could try to escape . I thought of grabbing a bar and using all my strength try to twist it around one way and then the other to see if I could weaken it. But I didn’t know what “they” would do. There were several other things I thought of but quickly discarded them for similar reasons: They can see everything I do and I probably couldn’t do anything that they would miss. Is this part of the set-up? I believe it is. This constantly being under surveillance makes a person realize that it is hopeless to resist.
Like the Borg on Star Trek Next Generation. Resistance is futile, yet man continues to find creative ways to resist. Is freedom so precious that we would rather die than to give it up? I think so. I can see myself becoming an animal if it weren’t for the creative outlet they allow me. And I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that, or I surely would go stir crazy.
Then, after the first six months here, I was on my back on the cot trying to get comfortable. I thought I saw something on the ceiling. It looked like the ceiling had been marked on and then painted over. I squinted real hard but the lighting was dim (it is never off, and that was the hardest thing to get used to). I didn’t want to attract attention, so I told myself to check it out somehow the next day.
In the morning, I sat up but still couldn’t make it out. I spent the whole day trying to figure out how to get close enough to see what it had been without causing suspicions on their part to ruin it for me. It had become a game. It wasn’t a game that I was in a hurry to complete, but a game nonetheless. And only I knew it was being played. It may not seem like a big deal to others, but to me it was monumental. And it has grown in importance since then. My little secret. My little war of wits. It is one of the few things that I can lay claim to in here and I am clinging on to it for all I have. I will figure out a way to closely inspect it without being found out. I must, for the sake of my sanity, and for because of the situation I am in. It is me against them.
It was many months of brain-wracking thought, when I remembered something from way back in my past. Somethig I read. Dante’s Inferno. The sign above the entrance to Hell reads: Abandon hope, all who enter here. I looked at the smudges on the ceiling and…they fit! That is what someone wrote there before they could stop him. They painted it over but evidently did not do a very good job. A wave of accomplishment washed over me…then it was gone and I realized my little game was over.
It was just one game of many. But I won it. And I will win the next one. And the next, too. I must not give up. Nor will I give up hope.
I can’t.
