imprison - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
No doors. No windows. No way out. Every minute hell. I hear a clock ticking by. It rings out, it’s echoes penetrating the stillness of the air. Twelve o’clock. Looking around all I see is an indefinite expansion of pure white space. You could run forever and never get anywhere, never make progress. No light. No shadows. Just the colors of empty white. Though there appears to be nothing but open space around, I get the feeling of suffocation, like my lungs are caving in. I am trapped, imprisoned in my own mind.
Sadness sits an inch below Keller's face, eyes remaining dry, expression impassive. He knows that if he even lets a fraction out that the rest will follow, a never ending torrent of grief. All he does from sun up to sun down is sit with his forehead against the wall right above his canvass sneakers. They took his mama, they took his land, then they took his freedom - all to warn the others not to fight back. The prison would be the last thing he ever saw; the guards that beat him would give him his final feelings and the flickering bulb would be the last light he ever felt. Meadow City prison just wasn't the kind of place they let folks walk out of, every arrest was a death sentence, no exceptions.
Carter moves nothing but his eyes, his mind racing while every muscle stays rock still. The prison isn't designed for the purpose, the door is a regular door and the window too large, the bars added are so recent there is still drywall dust on the floor. It's a house, suburban most likely. Poor sound insulation could be his friend, the right noises at the right time to get attention...
There's nothing in this tiny room but my own heart beat and rancid breath. At times I have hit the iron bars with the ring on my finger, just to hear something different, to make a tune. Then the futility of it all hits me. I can imagine music all I want, recollect sunny days and picture wide open spaces, but these walls aren't crumbling any century soon. The only time I get to leave is to the interrogation room and even then I never see a face. The guards wear black hoods and the questions are delivered by a disembodied and distorted voice. I used to think that if I ended up in one of these places I'd be stoic, that my beard would drape the floor before I uttered a syllable. Apparently, I'm not that brave. I can either talk, converse, use my mind - or loose my mind. Some nights one part of my brain gets talking to another, whispering if I'm lucky, yelling if I'm not.
I was imprisoned. Awaiting trial. I was suspected of killing my boss in cold blood. I was trapped in a room with no windows, no table, no chair. Not even one thing that might comfort me. I had only my insistence for comfort. I had hired a good lawyer. But was that enough? My boss had powerful contacts, many with millions of dollars in the bank. Maybe one of them was willing to corrupt my trial so that everyone thinks my boss's murderer was sent to jail and executed. My trial is scheduled tomorrow. Despair creeps over me. This couldn't happen to me, could it?
For a moment, the world was a blur of dull colours. Then, as she properly awoke, everything came into focus. She wished it hadn't, for she found herself once more in her dark cell. Shackles were tied around her ankles and wrists, chaining her to the solid brick wall behind her. Every time she so much as shifted, the chains made echoing noises that seemed to go on forever. Her skin was sickly; pallid and stretched over her stark bones, for she had not eaten properly for almost three months. Her feet were bare and grubby, and all she wore over her frail body was a set of ragged robes. She had been seen stealing diamond necklaces and pearl rings and all manner of valuable objects. So she was imprisoned. And she had no idea how long it would be before she was released.
I slowly started to wake up, opening my eyes to a dark room. I tried to move, but chains rattled and I stopped at once. I realized that I was laying face-down on my stomach, breathing in the rancid residue that coated the floor; it smelled like death. A steady dripping noise was coming from my left, and underneath that was the sound of distant footsteps. The footfalls became steadily louder; I scrambled to stand, straining against the blackness to see what or who was coming.
What a dark, unforgiving place it is - prison; a lonely cell, its only characteristics a creaky bed and a springy mattress, with nothing more to hold, except the human minds within it.
Man can live without freedom, man can sway in fantasies, he can create his own stories and his own fantastical realities, he can fly, he can soar in dreams and he can jump off the tallest ledges and survive-in his own imagination. But man can never escape, no matter how hard he tries, he can never outrun his own conscious thoughts; they haunt and yell, scream in the back of his mind, until they blur and mix; leaving man to rip out his own hair, for a chance in relief.
Imprisonment leaves you with yourself. All alone with insects for company, and that's when the other part of you starts to speak, blathering, arguing with thoughts, screaming for attention. And that's when prison breaks you, leaving you to break yourself. Until there is no more you, but a shell, a hollow, reverberate one, without life.