Deep in the dungeon, the prisoner sat.
He was shackled to the wall. So, there wasn’t much for him to do besides sit and scream. Screaming, however, made his throat sore and it didn’t seem to accomplish anything more than that.
So, the prisoner sat and sat. And he thought.
And he tried to remember what freedom felt like.
What did freedom look like?
What color was it?
Was it sky blue and grass green?
Was it walking wherever he pleased?
Was it good tasting food and clean water?
What did it sound like?
He stopped there.
He couldn’t remember the sound of freedom.
Did that mean he never was truly free? Or had he been too wrapped up in his daily dramas to hear it?
He remembered the things he used to complain about.
Insane taxi drivers.
Insane drivers in general.
None of those things had any meaning to him now.
What would it be like to be free again? After being a prisoner for so long, how well would he be able to cope with freedom? To no longer be confined to one small cell? To feel and see the open space around him as he walked outside.
Panic shook his bones as he imagined it all too well.
Too much open space.
Too much air.
He shivered and pressed his forehead against his knees.
He would never be free again.