Suffering

by Samantha Wilson

I can’t coax myself to rise from the dust and dirt coated rug beneath me as the grains dig into my skin. I lie there, attempting to stare through the ceiling, the fan affixed there wobbling lazily as it rotates on its base. I’m surrounded by a world of noise and movement, creatures going about their lives, as they pass me by unaware of my absence. I haven’t eaten in so long that my stomach has begun to eat itself and my skin hangs like pathetic curtains from my bones, I’m a withered husk of my former glory, my energy depleted.

I have been trapped in this room for longer than I can remember, it is devoid of any distractions from the hunger that consumes me. I drift between waking madness and unconscious turmoil, remembering a time when I was free. I once roamed the world towards any whim that would carry me and partook in any delicacy that would find its way before me on my travels.

I was set upon, ensnared and imprisoned, the cause for my capture never revealed to me. My vicious captors poke and prod me, toss me about my confines, and give me barely enough to survive for another torturous day. I cannot fathom even the prisoners of a long-forgotten war receiving treatment as unfair as this. My captors would occasionally offer me small praises or passing comments, and if I choose to stoop to begging, they might offer me an extra serving or small morsel.

My captors are cruel creatures, who revel in keeping me terrified, chasing me around the room and howling with laughter at my fear. They permit me to observe the world around me through one of the many windows that wall in this room, teasing me with my inability to participate, just to sit in a chair and observe its passing. When they aren’t occupying my nightmares or flaunting freedom in my face, they toss hateful comments my way and belittle my captivity with excuses that someone had ordered it “for my health and happiness.”

I start to envision my captors’ gruesome deaths: slicing their throats as they sleep and watching them bleed to death, staring at me in terrified realization, trip them as they trapse about and watching them shatter to bits on the ground, or strangling them—maybe even with my teeth—and watching the life slowly drain from their eyes.

I don’t think I can maintain my sanity for much longer. Every passing moment brings me closer the gnawing madness of hunger at my core.

[“Mr. Knicker Bottoms!”]

An airy voice, just above a whisper entered the room, the body of a gentle elderly woman following. “It’s time for your afternoon meal! Come eat, my baby!” The frail woman crossed the room, bathed in the warm afternoon sun, gingerly stepping around discarded toys and playthings. She carefully shuffles around the white ball of fur weaves its way through her gate, crying for his afternoon meal. She shakily placed a shining bowl of food onto a level of the tower within her reach. A large, soft, white cat gracefully hops up and begins to gorge himself on the meal. “My, my beautiful baby boy.” She says as she starts stroking his gossamer fur, then gingerly scratching at behind the ears of the ravenous Persian. “You’d think I was starving you, how you eat. I know it’s hard cutting back, but the vet said we needed to slow down on feeding you so much” She lovingly squeezes at his paunchy sides “You’re getting to be a chubby boy, it’s bad for your health. You know I love you so much and I want you to live a long, healthy life sweetie” The old lady continues to scratch at the cat’s ears and about his head until he had had his fill of food and leapt down from his perch, with a hollow thud, and walked over to lounge on a down stuffed bed in the lingering beams of sunlight. The old lady sits down in her chair and hums a familiar tune quietly as she returns to her knitting. The cat slowly starts to drift off into his post meal nap.

I scarfed down the meager vittles they taunt me with; never knowing when my next meal will come again. How much longer will I continue to suffer in this room, estranged from the world? Concerns I will perhaps address tomorrow. For today, I will nap.

Samantha Wilson is attending her second year at Columbia College, pursuing a major in English. She is an returning student, military veteran, and mother of two. This is her second appearance in The Criterion and her first short story.