My Life In A Prison Cell Dialectical Journal
Laura: Life in a prison cell is to say the least, demanding. It gets to you. The long, hard, repetitive actions of daily life, the internal depression and longing to leave, and the knowledge that you are going to die any moment, yes, it gets to you. Though I'd never admit it , I miss him. Emotions in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I wish I could describe the diabolical beauty that is my brother,but I will never be able to. I don't have the language or the words to express what I feel towards him and that scares me. In the case that we ever meet again, I wouldn't know what to say. My legs burn from the last attempt at an escape and I haven’t slept in days. The dirty mirror I’ve requested for my cell only seems to make
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my fragile figure slimmer and my skeletal features darker. The hatred of mirrors that starts usually in one's middle age has already consumed my 19 year old body. It’s been a good day though. I’ve made a new friend, I've eaten something substantial for the first time this week and I’ve found some cigarettes that somehow managed to breathe me back to life. I'm tired though, and weak. The rhythmic rattling of the bars is painful against my eardrums. All I have heard for the last four years of my life is that clamorous clanging. Four years is a long time to be pummelled with the same horrific sound. Beautiful as it would be to remember something before that clanging, I simply can not. I've learnt to block that period from my life. I wonder if he has.
Jonathan: The cell creaks with culpability. The remorse fills the empty space, the empty distance between us. It consumes the silence, the emotion and drafts into every corner of my being. Even when I’m out of the cell, I’m still there. It’s worse when I leave. Then it’s not up to my imagination, it allows me to see her state of living, and that is much much worse. My thoughts are deafening.Throughout the past four years all I’ve pictured is her feeble, bleeding body and that expression of innocence. I've tried my best to get past it, but every small movement, every small thought that filters into my insignificant, horrific, scarred mind is drawn to her. I am surrounded continuously: by love, hatred and the numbing guilt. I tell myself that this isn’t who I am, that somewhere beneath my disgusting surface is something half decent. I tell myself that there is worth to my being, but I know there isn't. Here I am again, crying…but not helping. Inside I know there is nothing I can ever do to help, it happened, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Laura:
The smell that used to consume me has been completely overtaken. Instead of soap, there is dirt; instead of paint, there is blood and my tears that used to bring him so much pain are now merely becoming part of the accumulating filth rising beneath me. Jonathon: I launch myself upwards: my muscles contract hard against my bones, sending dizzy impulses up against my skull. ‘It was an accident’ ‘I didn't mean it’ I wake up in an instant ; I have fainted again. I am so numb from the memory that I can no longer feel the pain jolting through my skull. My stomach churns and I heave. The contraction is too much for my bruised body and I squeal in pain: the sound is horrifying. The paste on the walls has consumed the air supply. I am choking. The floor moves beneath me and before I know it I am alone on the cold grass of the prison garden, a glass of water clasped between my shaking fingers. “I want to go back” “I need to go back”
My screams make vibrating ripples on the institution pond and I break into tears yet again. If I could swim I would dive into the water and just disappear beneath the surface. We were adamant on teaching our kids to swim, Laura and I.
I pace the garden, searching for a surge of liberation from my eternal pain. My body refuses to give in and as I stumble the cold air chills and stings my eyes. My body is so tired, my thighs are throbbing and my fingers bloody.
Before I know it, I have passed out. Laura: The chill of the air consumes my body. I am so numb that I can no longer feel the jolting and jarring of my swollen muscles. Smoke filters into my mouth as I walk towards him. Flinching in terror, I march on. He's there next to the pond, alone. I am suddenly filled with an epitome of anger and the plan crumples and rips wildly in my mind. I run at him aimlessly, in hope of some narrow slither of satisfaction that can compensate for my pain. I am denied. As soon as I reach him, my mind recoils and I only feel worse. I retch at the sight of him, the water sucking at his ankles. I don’t know what I was thinking, just because he was finally rightfully convicted of the murder of our child, I thought he’d remember me. He probably doesn’t even know what his crime was, always oblivious was my …show more content…
Jonathon.
He sees me instantly, and with great restrain I stop myself from screaming at him. He is in tears, grey drops of salty perspiration streaming down his face. Ashamed, he looks away, covering his stinging eyes with the grimy cuff of his jumpsuit. Despite his efforts the sobs punch through, ripping through his muscles, bones and guts. That’s the way it is when people are hard. It’s like a theft of the spirit, an injury no other person can see, no one but me. I knew at once that he recognised me, four years behind bars for something he knows he did, but to him my face was unchanged. As much as I try to hold it in, the pain comes out like an uproar from my throat in the form of a silent scream. The beads of water start falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. I hit his arm and try to scream, but my voice is melted by the deafening silence of the place. My muffled sobs wrack against my chest. The world turns into a blur, and so do all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything is gone. The last painful emotion slams against me before I lose the feeling of feeling. Everything darkens into nothingness as I pass into the oblivion of unconsciousness.
Jonathon:
The tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down my face.
I feel the muscles of my chin tremble like a small child and I look towards her, hoping for soothing words I don’t deserve. There is static in my head once more, the side effect of this constant fear, constant stress I live with. I hear my own sounds, like a distressed child, raw from the inside. It takes something out of me I didn't know I had left to give. She looks at me blankly and I realise I had forgotten just how beautiful she was. Laura isn't beautiful in the classical way, no flowing golden curls or ivory skin; no piercing eyes of green. She’s shorter than average and certainly more petite than a catwalk model, but in her ordinariness she is stunning. Something radiated from within that rendered her irresistible to both genders. Men desired her and women courted her friendship. They always had. Somehow, for many years I had been the source of her happiness, but now when I turn and look at I her I merely see all the pain I have caused. As she sniffles in beat to my crying, I see the rawness in her tears, like her pain is an open wound. All of a sudden her body starts to shake aggressively. The sobs were stifled at first as she attempted to to hide her grief, but they were now overcome by a wave of emotion. All the defences she had built against me, wash away in those salty tears and she falls helplessly to the ground. I rest her feeble head on my lap and burst into tears at the sight of what I have
done to the woman I love. She wakes after a couple minutes to find my trembling fingers running through her hair. I kiss her gently, and for a second I seem to think she’s kissing me back. When she at last turns her face to me she is a picture of grief, loss, devastation. Laura is the face of one who has suffered before,and doesn’t know if she can do it again. Then, just when I think the breakthrough has come and she trusts me with her vulnerability again, the shutters come down, her emotion walls off behind a mask of coping and she stands up and walks away. I don’t stop her because I know it’s best to leave her alone. I would serve my time, and hopefully some day everything will be right again. I didn’t know any other way.
Laura:
My crying is both ferocious and noisy. I blink briny tears from bloodshot eyes, my thick lashes stuck together in clumps. The tears make wet tracks down my face and drip from my wobbling chin. Clear, watery snot streaks from my flaring nostrils down my red mottling skin to my open, quivering lips. I walk away proudly, knowing that it is exactly what I want. Someday I know I’ll meet someone else who I will love more passionately and longingly than I ever did Jonathan. I wasn’t in doubt. It took me four years to get over that disgusting man, and now I was there was no going back. I didn’t love him anymore and as I wiped my puffy eyes I knew that I was crying for myself, not for him.
my fragile figure slimmer and my skeletal features darker. The hatred of mirrors that starts usually in one's middle age has already consumed my 19 year old body. It’s been a good day though. I’ve made a new friend, I've eaten something substantial for the first time this week and I’ve found some cigarettes that somehow managed to breathe me back to life. I'm tired though, and weak. The rhythmic rattling of the bars is painful against my eardrums. All I have heard for the last four years of my life is that clamorous clanging. Four years is a long time to be pummelled with the same horrific sound. Beautiful as it would be to remember something before that clanging, I simply can not. I've learnt to block that period from my life. I wonder if he has.
Jonathan: The cell creaks with culpability. The remorse fills the empty space, the empty distance between us. It consumes the silence, the emotion and drafts into every corner of my being. Even when I’m out of the cell, I’m still there. It’s worse when I leave. Then it’s not up to my imagination, it allows me to see her state of living, and that is much much worse. My thoughts are deafening.Throughout the past four years all I’ve pictured is her feeble, bleeding body and that expression of innocence. I've tried my best to get past it, but every small movement, every small thought that filters into my insignificant, horrific, scarred mind is drawn to her. I am surrounded continuously: by love, hatred and the numbing guilt. I tell myself that this isn’t who I am, that somewhere beneath my disgusting surface is something half decent. I tell myself that there is worth to my being, but I know there isn't. Here I am again, crying…but not helping. Inside I know there is nothing I can ever do to help, it happened, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Laura:
The smell that used to consume me has been completely overtaken. Instead of soap, there is dirt; instead of paint, there is blood and my tears that used to bring him so much pain are now merely becoming part of the accumulating filth rising beneath me. Jonathon: I launch myself upwards: my muscles contract hard against my bones, sending dizzy impulses up against my skull. ‘It was an accident’ ‘I didn't mean it’ I wake up in an instant ; I have fainted again. I am so numb from the memory that I can no longer feel the pain jolting through my skull. My stomach churns and I heave. The contraction is too much for my bruised body and I squeal in pain: the sound is horrifying. The paste on the walls has consumed the air supply. I am choking. The floor moves beneath me and before I know it I am alone on the cold grass of the prison garden, a glass of water clasped between my shaking fingers. “I want to go back” “I need to go back”
My screams make vibrating ripples on the institution pond and I break into tears yet again. If I could swim I would dive into the water and just disappear beneath the surface. We were adamant on teaching our kids to swim, Laura and I.
I pace the garden, searching for a surge of liberation from my eternal pain. My body refuses to give in and as I stumble the cold air chills and stings my eyes. My body is so tired, my thighs are throbbing and my fingers bloody.
Before I know it, I have passed out. Laura: The chill of the air consumes my body. I am so numb that I can no longer feel the jolting and jarring of my swollen muscles. Smoke filters into my mouth as I walk towards him. Flinching in terror, I march on. He's there next to the pond, alone. I am suddenly filled with an epitome of anger and the plan crumples and rips wildly in my mind. I run at him aimlessly, in hope of some narrow slither of satisfaction that can compensate for my pain. I am denied. As soon as I reach him, my mind recoils and I only feel worse. I retch at the sight of him, the water sucking at his ankles. I don’t know what I was thinking, just because he was finally rightfully convicted of the murder of our child, I thought he’d remember me. He probably doesn’t even know what his crime was, always oblivious was my …show more content…
Jonathon.
He sees me instantly, and with great restrain I stop myself from screaming at him. He is in tears, grey drops of salty perspiration streaming down his face. Ashamed, he looks away, covering his stinging eyes with the grimy cuff of his jumpsuit. Despite his efforts the sobs punch through, ripping through his muscles, bones and guts. That’s the way it is when people are hard. It’s like a theft of the spirit, an injury no other person can see, no one but me. I knew at once that he recognised me, four years behind bars for something he knows he did, but to him my face was unchanged. As much as I try to hold it in, the pain comes out like an uproar from my throat in the form of a silent scream. The beads of water start falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. I hit his arm and try to scream, but my voice is melted by the deafening silence of the place. My muffled sobs wrack against my chest. The world turns into a blur, and so do all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything is gone. The last painful emotion slams against me before I lose the feeling of feeling. Everything darkens into nothingness as I pass into the oblivion of unconsciousness.
Jonathon:
The tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down my face.
I feel the muscles of my chin tremble like a small child and I look towards her, hoping for soothing words I don’t deserve. There is static in my head once more, the side effect of this constant fear, constant stress I live with. I hear my own sounds, like a distressed child, raw from the inside. It takes something out of me I didn't know I had left to give. She looks at me blankly and I realise I had forgotten just how beautiful she was. Laura isn't beautiful in the classical way, no flowing golden curls or ivory skin; no piercing eyes of green. She’s shorter than average and certainly more petite than a catwalk model, but in her ordinariness she is stunning. Something radiated from within that rendered her irresistible to both genders. Men desired her and women courted her friendship. They always had. Somehow, for many years I had been the source of her happiness, but now when I turn and look at I her I merely see all the pain I have caused. As she sniffles in beat to my crying, I see the rawness in her tears, like her pain is an open wound. All of a sudden her body starts to shake aggressively. The sobs were stifled at first as she attempted to to hide her grief, but they were now overcome by a wave of emotion. All the defences she had built against me, wash away in those salty tears and she falls helplessly to the ground. I rest her feeble head on my lap and burst into tears at the sight of what I have
done to the woman I love. She wakes after a couple minutes to find my trembling fingers running through her hair. I kiss her gently, and for a second I seem to think she’s kissing me back. When she at last turns her face to me she is a picture of grief, loss, devastation. Laura is the face of one who has suffered before,and doesn’t know if she can do it again. Then, just when I think the breakthrough has come and she trusts me with her vulnerability again, the shutters come down, her emotion walls off behind a mask of coping and she stands up and walks away. I don’t stop her because I know it’s best to leave her alone. I would serve my time, and hopefully some day everything will be right again. I didn’t know any other way.
Laura:
My crying is both ferocious and noisy. I blink briny tears from bloodshot eyes, my thick lashes stuck together in clumps. The tears make wet tracks down my face and drip from my wobbling chin. Clear, watery snot streaks from my flaring nostrils down my red mottling skin to my open, quivering lips. I walk away proudly, knowing that it is exactly what I want. Someday I know I’ll meet someone else who I will love more passionately and longingly than I ever did Jonathan. I wasn’t in doubt. It took me four years to get over that disgusting man, and now I was there was no going back. I didn’t love him anymore and as I wiped my puffy eyes I knew that I was crying for myself, not for him.