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Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV
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Depression101 Offline
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Post: #1
Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV

(The title will be updated with further parts, which will be posted in the comments.)

The first thing you would want to know is how a guy like me ended up in a place like this: how an amiable, quiet kid came to be humiliated and tormented by a bunch of low-life scum at some labour camp. Unlike Holden Caulfield, I’ll start my story with what happened after I got imprisoned in a mental institution. It started with how I needed an escape from school because of the hell I underwent there; and since I couldn’t get my hands on drugs, I resorted to cutting myself. Slashing your wrists is a bad idea. It’s a habit hard to hide, and there are better stimulants. My mother discovered my secret and she ended up talking about me to the principal who recommended counseling. I was shaky because I heard about the corruption of mental institutions in the last century, but I thought things improved after countless inquiries. Boy, was I wrong. It was horrible. Just fucking horrible. After I was force-fed pills that warped my mind, but still resisted the system, the big-wigs there convinced my mother that she should send me to one of those boot camps; I don’t actually know the name, but you know those places where these hard-assed military fucks yell at you and make you run marathons with fifty-ton bags. When I arrived there, I cried. I remember being hugged by mother and it making me more sad. Then she assured me it was for the best and all those falsely-comforting lies you tell your friends if their have cancer or something.

The camp was an imposing structure: a chain-linked fence, ten foot high, ran along two acres of bleak grass; squatted in the centre of the field, there was a square stone building. Adjacent to that building was a tower, also stone. There were only two colors: green and grey. Both bleak. I got out of the car and my hands shook as I trudged towards the evil idol looming on the lifeless field. We went into the building and I took a seat in a stiff chair as my mother went to the counter. I held my bag in my hand. I packed two pairs of t-shirts, four pairs of shocks, a pair of shirts, a black tie, two jeans, two runners, and some underwear, when it comes to clothes; I also packed a toothbrush, toothpaste, a golden watch, and a book they wouldn’t be opposed to when they looted the luggage -- I correctly assumed they did that.

My mother knelt beside me, kissed me and told me she’ll see me soon and to stay strong. Great fucking advice!

This fucking beefcake came up to me and starting barking these commands, for me to follow him, telling me that I was late. I don’t remember him barking at my mother that she was a lazy bitch who couldn’t read a wrist watch. You’d assume I did the fucking driving. I was dragged into this assembly hall where the lights were dim and the floor dirty. It was overflowing with people, mostly tattooed freaks with pink mohawks. We all sat down on the floor, looking up onto a stage where another beefcake in military clothes was yelling at us:

“Here, your ass belong to us. You eat when we tell you, you drink when we tell you, you piss when we tell you, and you shit when we tell you. Here, it’s either ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’, no degenerate slang. By the end of this you will be sculpted into model citizens, and you will look back at the scum you where and warn your grandkids against it. You will go through hell -- absolute hell. No doubt about that. You will cry. You will scream. You will try to rebel. But when you do, and you will, you won’t know what hit you. We’ll break your ass, but we will re-shape it into something better. Now, remember, we do this for your own good; so comply, and we’ll get along just fine. Capiche, sweethearts?”

I dug my fingernails into my legs until they bled slightly, because I was sort of crying. I usually like to think of myself as a tough guy, with the weight of the world on him, kicking ass and taking names, but, really, I’m a weak, sensitive bastard, afraid of these things. Then we were yelled at by another military guy, and it scared me a bit. I have been shouted at before, and I grew a tolerance, but this was an alien place, alien people, all of them big and hostile. We were lead into this room which was basically a stone rectangle with two levels, connected by stairs, where each wall was lined with doors. I watched The Shawshank Redemption(and read the novella) about five times, and this place reminded me of that cell-block. And that’s why I started shaking and breathing frantically. I searched the crowd for someone whom I could relate to, but I was the odd one out. The rest either had long hair or no hair, all wore leather jacket and spiked boots, and all them laughed and joked and spat everywhere; I was really starting to get a heart attack when this one guard came up to me and said to follow him. He lead me to cell V(or five), and said this was my room. They called them “rooms” but they were “cells”. He had a notepad, and said he was assigned to me. He said: “You seemed to be a good kid. Strayed off the beaten path, heh? Not to worry, we’ll beat you back onto it”

He then snatched the bag out of my hand and ripped it open, and, with a couple of vicious hand movements, my equipment was strewn all over the claustrophobic room. There was nothing in the room but a bed, a toilet and a small desk; granted, there wasn’t room for much more. He picked up my book, A portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, measured it with his eyes, and flipped through a couple of pages, looking for swear words or hidden drugs, or something. He was evidently disappointed when he found nothing taboo. “If I hear so much as a fart in here after lights out, you’ll be doing push-ups until day-break, you hear me?” He screamed as he started to go out. All I could manage in my shaken state was to say “Yessir” with a squeaky voice.

“Oh, you’re a little bitch now that, huh? Gonan cry for mommy? A little too late now, don’t you think? Shoulda considered it before you acted out like a delinquent. We’ll make you love school by the end of this!”

He shut the door and I was left in the dark. After five minutes a dim overhead light came on and the screams of the sergeants disappeared down the hall. Yeah, I forgot to tell you about that: they were actual fucking sergeants, from the army. No joke. In the corner of my room, there was a triggered mousetrap with a gory rodent caught in the snare. I was having a full-scale breakdown at that point, tears were streaming down my cheeks, and my hands were experiencing an earthquake. To steady myself I looked in the drawer of the desk, there was a notebook and a black pen. Before I was caged I fancied myself an artist, a writer; I loved reading and writing, and of the biggest reasons why I despised school was because it turned art into some academic bullshit. It beat the love of writing out of me. Artist aren’t supposed to be caged. They’re meant to write whenever they feel depressed, but that’s a danger to conformity, so authoritarians beat it out of you, the creativity.

I didn’t sleep that night. I tried to, but I just wept into my pillow. I’m an atheist, but I prayed to God, all shivering and shriveled up in bed, afraid of those big men in army outfits who screamed and shouted so much. I was horrified. I didn’t think I would read the book even if I could see it, but I just wanted to glimpse Joyce’s name, and see the letters on the cover or on the blurb. But it was so dark.

The next morning alarms blared. There was no windows in my cell so I didn’t know what time of day it was, and the light didn’t come on so I couldn’t check my watch. I heard the sergeants opening the doors and ushering the inmates out. The cell doors weren’t locked, that would have been a violation of our rights, but the doors on either end of the hallway, the only doors out, were locked and barred. We were lead out the opposite side from where we came in, and into the field outside, behind the side of the building I couldn’t see when I arrive. It was torture yard; what they called the “exercise yard.” We were in an isolated area, probably so children's rights violation couldn’t be observed and reported; we were in the middle of these fields and valleys and forests, these beautiful vistas stretched out for miles before us. They spoke of freedom but we saw them through the chain-linked fence.

The sergeants told us something about how lucky we are to be here and all that bullshit. The fresh air made me feel better, I wasn’t as afraid now. We started off by running twenty laps around a square the size of a football field. Everyone was struggling for breath and it was an effort to breathe and we couldn’t get enough air in to extinguish the fire in our lungs. . But when some kid said he couldn’t keep up one of the fucking army cunts ran up to him and started yelling in his ear; and when that didn’t work, they told the kid to get on the ground and do fifty push-ups; and when he couldn’t do that they threatened him with solitary confinement. That happened to most people, myself included. I was driven by fear to run two more laps, but I just couldn’t handle it, so I fell back, then this sergeant ran up to me, and I was so tired I needed support, so I kind of threw myself at him. That’s when he punched me in the guts. In a whirl of confusion, with a strangled shout, and a feeling of my stomach shriveling up, I sank to my knees, my whole body drenched in sweat and pulsing with pain. “Sorry, son, I thought you were going to attack me. You fine? You shoulda just kept going like a good lad and I wouldn’t have socked ya, you see.” But I wasn’t listening, I was holding my stomach because it felt like it was going to fall out. Eventually I succumbed to a blackness which I honestly taught was eternal oblivion. In short, I was disappointed I hadn’t died then and there.

I awoke in the medical wing, which was the tower I saw, feeling doped up on drugs which did little to drown out the throbbing agony in my stomach. I had enough. I couldn’t stand it anymore, I had to escape.

"Then it was straight to the 40 ouncers/ slapping teachers and jacking off in front of my counselors." As the World Turns - Eminem.

"A man is a success if gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between does whatever he does what he wants to do." - Bob Dylan.

"A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong." - Orson Welles.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die." - H.P. Lovecraft.

"I became insane, with long intervals of painful sanity." Edgar Allan Poe.
(This post was last modified: 06-17-2017 02:24 AM by Depression101.)
05-22-2017 05:53 AM
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Some People Aren't Meant to be Caged -- Part I + II + III + IV - Depression101 - 05-22-2017 05:53 AM

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