Eagle In The Sun - Creative Writing

Eagle In The Sun - Creative Writing
25th December 2006. 2.56pm. Wandsworth Prison, G Block. A bucket sits underneath the sink, a metal desk is soldered onto the floor, a bed is fixed to the wall ? all human needs are accounted for. A dusty Bible is slightly visible under the bed. On the desk are some pencils, a tabloid newspaper, a transistor radio that does not work, some blank pieces of paper and a small crucifix. All the objects are smothered in dust. A young man, about twenty-seven years old, sits on a metal chair (which is attached to the floor), leaning on the desk with his elbows. His blue eyes are haunted by dejection. A primitive window permits some solitary rays of light, a radiance that harshly clashes with the sinister gloominess of the chamber. The dark, nauseating cell resounds with silence. ?I used to love Christmas Day. I wonder what my parents are doing right nowâ??I just hope they are happy and not too ashamed of me. They deserved better, but I?ll try not to think about that. Thoughts like that are dangerous; they send people mad.
I?ve survived so far by being indifferent to everythingâ??nothing really seems real anymore anyway. I read in the paper yesterday that the world is on the brink of war. I tried to be sad, to think of all the innocent civilians who are going to dieâ??but I couldn?t, because nothing is real anymore." Silence again floods the cell. He fumbles with his regulation prison belt and eventually removes it from his regulation prison trousers. His hands tremble, a look of dread scars his face and his voice cracks with emotion. ?I?m lucky in some ways; sometimes I really like it in hereâ??no one bothers you if you keep your head down, all you?ve got to worry about is passing the time, defeating the boredom, finding something to occupy your mind with. If I?m ever released, that?s when life will begin againâ??when I?ve got to wake up from this sleep. I don?t think I can return to the outside." He clasps the belt tightly around his neck and a solitary tear seeps down his face. He steps onto the metal chair. ?I still believe in God, of course I do. Otherwise who made this world, who created peopleâ??how did mountains and volcanoes and oceans appear? Everything has got to exist for a reason. But I want nothing to do with him. He?s there, but he won?t answer me, he doesn?t care. He?s laughing at us allâ??I remember reading a book once that said a hanging man hears gorgeous music when he dies." He looks round his vile compartment and wryly manages a pained smile. He stares grimly at the crucifix on his desk, yet looks defiant. ?I doubt itâ??all the same I hope that the tune I am about to hear is something nice, maybe something to hum along to, something to fall asleep toâ??maybe that song about dreaming of a white Christmas." He laughs momentarily, recognising the absurdity of the situation - standing on a chair, in a prison, with a belt tied around his neck. ?All I can think about is when I was youngâ??I used to love playing football at school, watching television, everything was simple and happy. When did it all changeâ??my mum told me that God would forgive any sin if I repent, if I regret what I?ve done and I apologiseâ??.But I?m not sorry. If I said I was sorry, I would be lyingâ??that?s a sin as well, isn?t it?" He fastens the belt tightly to a beam hanging on the ceiling. The sun outside gradually descends and millions of people celebrate the birth of Jesus, the Son of God, with laughter and delight. ?I didn?t mean to kill him anywayâ??I never meant to kill anyone. He just wouldn?t shut up ? shouting, screaming, and telling me to get out. I just wanted to tell him that I needed the moneyâ??I didn?t want to hurt anyone, but I needed the money, but he wouldn?t listenâ??and I panicked." A lost hill in Calvary is empty, there is a hint of thunder, but it doesn?t materialise. An eagle swoops and circles the hill. It flies high, turns right, looks left and returns to its circuit of the hill. After a short while, perhaps ten minutes, it flies away with dignity, soaring through the air and gliding towards freedom.

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