In Shackles

He knelt on the floor, head facing down and hunched over. His bare back facing the ceiling of the dungeon he was imprisoned in. Sweating and bleeding from the daily abuse, he knelt exhausted on that cold stone floor. He could not, for the life of him, remember the days when he was out of that wretched dungeon; the days where his bare feet stood on soft, green grass and the sun shone off his body. For so long had he been trapped, in those heavy, iron shackles in that dungeon with its cold stone floor. The darkness enveloped him, ate his being. He felt years older than he was in reality, he was weak and hopeless now. Worst of it all was the small flash of light he saw through the cracks on the walls of his darker than dark dungeon. It was the only way he understood the passing of a day. Oh, how he missed the sun; its rejuvenating light warming his every cell, bringing him back from the dead again and again and again. Where had that virility gone? Why could he not remember the day he was imprisoned? Who had done this to him and for what? He had not the answer, he had only the suffering.

          He had tried time and again to break the shackles. His wrists had bled, the rusted iron piercing his soft skin, the friction burning the flesh until all that was left was bone. The shackles were stronger than he had expected. They were old and rusted but still tough. Every day it was the same thing, kneeling on that cold stone floor, watching days pass by through the cracks on the ceiling. Occasionally he would see people, people who would wander into that dungeon. They would stand outside his cage and point at him, gawking and mocking his sorry existence. He did not care for their sympathy; he had no need for it. His only need was aid. He would call out to those standing outside his cage and ask feebly, “Help, please.” But, they never gave a second glance; they simply waved his plea away, turned heel and walked away. The point of his existence seemed bleaker by the day. Why must he continue fighting? Why must he continue to put up with this torrid abuse? Why was he alone in that dungeon, the walls of which laughed at him as his blood and sweat sprayed across it? He could see it, so clearly he could, his death; his meaningless death. This dungeon was his grave; he was going to die in those rusted, heavy iron shackles. There was no way out. There was no light at the end of this tunnel, even if there was he could never reach it. His life was darkness, he couldn’t remember light, and he couldn’t remember the glow of the sun. He was as good as dead.

          He was smiling one morning…or night. It was cold; so cold his frail body shivered. He kept smiling; it was here finally, the end to his misery was here. He was welcoming death, no matter how painful; it would release him from his shackled existence. It was then that he heard a soft whistling in the cold breeze. The cold was not as intense anymore, the breeze turned warm, comforting his torn flesh and broken spirit. He raised his head in the direction of the whistle and standing in front of his cage was a man, but he was not like any other. There was a mystique that he could not explain; it brought about unexplained calm and peace in his mind. The pain disappeared. “Son,” said the strange mystical man, “why do you stay?” The question could not have been more obscure. “Sir, I am not here by choice. I have been bound by these shackles. I have been here long and not a single soul has attempted to aid me. I am stuck in this pit and I wait here silent and alone for death to swiftly take me away” he said baring his shackles to the mystical man. The mystical man smiled and whistled again; the calm it brought…ecstasy. “Son, I see no shackles. Do you remember how you came here?” the mystical man said and continued to whistle. “I do not remember the sun. I feel I was born here and this is my home. I do not remember the sun but I know it is there. I do not remember it” he said tears swelling in his eyes. The mystical man began to dance, bobbing his head from side to side and whistling that calming tune, “Remember!” he said, “think, remember.”

He closed his eyes and he tried; he had to have come here somehow. It suddenly hit him, he was free, he could see the sun, better yet, he could feel it! He was a boy running wild and free among the trees the flowers the animals. He kept running. But, the grass did not feel soft, it pricked. The sun, he wanted to hide from, it burned him. He was upset! But, what was it? He could not remember. All he remembered and could feel was that he wanted to hide from the sun. He kept running. It appeared in front of him, the dungeon. It wasn’t there but it appeared! He ran in, he needed to hide from the sun. He didn’t want the sun, the soft grass or the forest. He wanted the dungeon. He ran straight into it, the dungeon. He kept running, till he reached the end. There in front of him it lay, shining silver; shackles! He remembered now. It was he who had locked himself in those chains that had rusted over the years. He had wished to forget the sun. He was the reason he was in chains. All along it was him! He opened his eyes and the mystical man was gone, he stood on soft, green grass and the sun, directly above his head, fed him joy again.

He was free!

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