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I wrote the following short story in the span of two hours, one autumn afternoon. It was inspired by some news I’d received that had affected me. As I’ve said in the past, the birth of a text comes not from wanting to write, but from needing to write. Needless to say, the story is highly symbolic – hey, Kafka has been one of my influences, what do you expect?

Liam’s Walls – a Short Story

Tim died today. It’s awful to wake up next to someone dead, it just feels like reality as you’ve come to know it no longer exists. That is particularly the case when you’ve spent so much time with someone, as I’ve had with Tim. Sometimes I feel the only life I’ve ever known has been this one, trapped inside this prison, kept alive only on a whim, my sole purpose to entertain my master.

Tim was already cold and stiff when I woke up, and I knew he was dead. Still, I nudged him and tried to revive him pushing his chest. Of course nothing happened, and I forced myself to accept the fact that I was now alone in this cell. I don’t know what forced me to move to the opposite corner, to be as far away from Tim as possible. In a way it felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t help it.

Part of me was scared – the iciness of death has this intense effect on you – but I would like to think it was mostly out of respect. Perhaps a part of me also needed the comforting thought that Tim was no longer there, it was just his dead body.

Tim had escaped, the only way either of us (or, hell, any one of us) can. We’re all trapped in our prisons, literal or figurative, our own body being the most secure one. Well, Tim and I happened to be trapped inside a literal prison as well.

My name is Liam, though it’s not a name I picked for myself. I don’t know anyone who picked their own name – it’s usually some authority figure that does it for you; your parents, if not anyone else. My master picked “Liam”, I don’t know why. Perhaps she liked the name, perhaps it’s the name of her father or a long-lost lover.

I feel terribly lonely now that Tim died. We had our moments, sometimes arguing about food or for who got to sleep at the warmest, coziest spot of our enclosure. But we also shared experiences, thoughts, and memories – whatever memories we’d had left from the life before. Frankly, I have almost none. As I said, every now and then I’m petrified in the thought that the only life I can recall is the one behind these walls.

It was several hours after dawn that my master realized Tim was dead. With some help from the guards, Tim’s body was taken away. Everyone seemed solemn – dare I say even sad – but their motives remain opaque to me. I don’t understand much about these people, and the attempt to figure it out is painful for some reason. They haven’t mistreated us, I can’t say that. Though to be kept locked inside this cell surely puts a stop to a discussion of personal rights. I am a prisoner, and that’s that.

Is it against my will? Sometime I shudder realizing that I don’t really know. After all, if the proverbial magic wand was waved, granting me my freedom, what would I do, where would I go? I know nothing outside these walls, to let me go now would be perhaps more cruel than keeping me here. It’s not about me, personally, there is no “me”. It’s about others like me. This should’ve never been allowed to happen in the first place, it’s too late for me now.

Tim died today. I’m happy for him, he’s had a good life and he made a clean escape. Sometimes I want to cry thinking of all the barbarity out there – we are well protected in these walls – and the whole thing feels inherently wrong. Life feels flawed, there has to be something better than this false dilemma. I don’t want to be a prisoner, but I don’t want to be free either. Life is flawed.

Perhaps there is another world somewhere else, in some other realm, where things are just perfect in every way. I’m too stupid to think of the details, I just want to believe it. Maybe Tim is there right now, that thought consoles me.

My master eventually came to me. She didn’t say much, I think Tim’s passing had shocked her. She comforted me, gave me food and water, and something to occupy my time with – though I didn’t feel particularly keen on doing anything with those gadgets. Then she touched the side of my face with her long fingers, her eyes conveying a sense of kindness though, as I said, I don’t understand these people’s feelings very well.

In the late evening I realized I had been scratching the wall. It’s terrifying to wake up into the knowledge of having done something, without recalling when you did it. I ran into the darkest corner of my enclosure and stayed there, in a vain attempt to feel protected. Utter silence covered everything – my master and the guards had already gone to sleep – and I could feel my rapid heartbeat. I could see in the dark, feeling perplexed by my pondering on the matter. Had it begun, I thought, was this the point I’d start to interact with my own mind in a desperate attempt to keep insanity at bay?

Late at night, I heard a noise. It sounded like a creature lamenting, though I couldn’t tell whether it indeed was such a thing. I couldn’t even be sure I wasn’t imagining it. I feel a pain rippling through my frame, as I think that I can’t bear this life anymore. The thought is tearing me apart: Why didn’t they ask me before bringing me here? But then all of a sudden another thought, more vile, enters my consciousness: What if they did ask me, and I enthusiastically agreed?

The injustice of my condition is killing me, but what hurts more is my inability to blame whomever responsible for my state. It is not my master’s fault, I am not that naive. I would give anything to be in Tim’s place.