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Solitary Confinement by Jayne Dough
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
A peek into a woman's experience with incarceration.
She inhales the sterile aroma of the recently scrubbed corridor as she stands in front of a bright pink metal door with a twelve-by-four inch opening in the lower center of it. The opening reminds her of the library book return drop slot in elementary school. Her hands are secured behind her back with steel wrist restraints. A starched orange uniform hangs loosely on her body, yet somehow feels confining in itself. Her ankles, bound by similar restraints, are rudely reminded of their presence by the blisters already beginning to form there. She has been told the forced separation by confinement from the only thing that has ever freed her is now her only salvation. She stands there, immobilized, frozen, using all of her distorted beliefs to deny she is supposed to be there. She is jittering, twitching, the contradictions overwhelming her.
It seems a long time passes before the familiar clink, clank and rattle of the door grudgingly rolling open along its track resigns her once again to the claustrophobic parameter of the cell. As she enters the cell she is hindered by tediously small steps, careful not to further irritate the already painful blisters. The fluorescent lighting in the cell is blinding, biting into every nerve in her body. The cement walls, a pale ivory to dull the bright lights. Two hundred and ninety-three bricks layered one atop the other—if her memory serves correctly the many times she has counted them to pass the time. Straight ahead of her, against the far wall, is a metal bench two feet from the ground with an inch-thick, olive green mattress laid perfectly upon its surface, giving it the deceiving appearance of a bed. There is a single white cotton blanket folded neatly at the foot of it. To her left is a stainless steel toilet, bare of the common padded seat cover. On the floor beside it, there is a roll of thin, course toilet paper. Above and to the right of the toilet is a ceramic basin with a single sliver of hand soap between the shiny steel faucet and the push-button that brings forth the water. Directly above the basin is the proverbial mirror through which she has been told to seek the root of all her troubles. High above the bed, running parallel with the ceiling is a rectangular six-by-one foot bulletproof glass window through which a faint haze of sunshine is penetrating.
She is shaken from her observations by the thunderous clamor of the door sealing her fate behind her. The resounding boom echoes through the corridor sending a tremble through her body from head to toe, shaking her to her core. Without being aware of it, her wrist restraints have been removed, and she realizes that she has been unconsciously rubbing her wrists trying to erase any evidence of them having been there.
The white tile floor, speckled with what looks like black pepper, is cold beneath her bare feet. The air conditioning is set at an intolerable degree, and all too soon her ankle restraints have stingingly chilled against her skin. She searches the cell for the perpetrating vent and vaguely recalls its location to be in the middle of the ceiling. She looks up and finds it there. She shuffles to the toilet and reaches down for the roll of toilet paper. She unravels a premeditated bundle of it and turns to the basin. She pushes the button and a delicate spray—barely a mist—struggles through the faucet. Her fingers are agile as she dampens the tissue just so, because she already knows that in seven seconds the water will automatically turn off. She turns, armed with the wet tissue, and shuffles to the middle of the cell. With versed determination, she tosses the damp tissue up at the vent. Victorious in her effort, the tissue sticks to the vent with a dull thud. She repeats this process until the vent is sufficiently covered to her satisfaction. In a few moments, the temperature in the cell becomes much more comfortable.
Task completed, she shuffles over to the bed, turns and sits down on it then swings her shackled feet up onto the bed. The thin mattress hardly disguises the hard surface of the metal beneath it. She lays her head down and stares blankly at the ceiling. Eventually she closes her eyes and shuts out the bright light, taking with it the rigid appearance of the cell.
In the solitary confinement of her mind, she sees her two daughters. Her first born, now seven years old; she has black, straight shoulder-length hair; her shoulders stiff with defiance; her dark brown sad eyes are cast downward. She is angry and ashamed of her mother. Her second born, now six years old; she has brown, spiraled, curly hair bobbing at her waist; her eyes are light brown, glittering with laughter and shaded by thick, heavy, long lashes. She is oblivious of her mother.
She awakes, some time later, with a tear trickling down the side of her face. It tingles as it descends into the mass of hair that suffices as a makeshift pillow. The cell is now wrapped in darkness. Gone is the bright light and the faint haze of sunshine that earlier penetrated the cell. In those quiet, dark moments when the silence is deafening, she realizes the only confinement she will never escape is that of her own mind.
This story is chilling. I can't imagine how this woman will survive until tomorrow, let alone for the duration of her sentence. I don't know how you know the details. This story grabs the mind and doesn't let go. Great work.
She never felt safe at home as a young girl, and didn't understand why when she finally escaped she wasn't safe in the big wide world either ...effectively jumping out of the frying pan into the fire!
Sherlyn Powell opens up about her love and devotion to her family and the overwhelming repercussion when communication breaks down. Heartbroken and distraught she learns to release her prayer and realize with faith God would reunite her family.
