I Am a Convict
 

            I am a convict. Or so says my navy blue nametag, stitched and tattooed across my heart. It bears my name, my calling, my past and future. Yet I can remember neither. Like an amnesia victim, I’m here, but I don’t dare believe it. This all seems so surreal, separate, and far away. My lack of belief in the existence of this time and place erases all possibility of meaning and value. The fact that I am a convict comes as a side note, I could have just as easily awakened crowned prince of Algeria; the effect would have been the same. “Oh, these are the facts. What’s next?”

            I am not alone, and I am in space. Across from me, two more nametags are nestled on either side of a porthole filled deep with blackness. The man on the right is scruffy and bald. Although the scorched fields of prodding hairs make it hard at first for me to distinguish his scalp from his chin. Then I remember the concept of up and down. It is a divine wonder to wake up among the weightless. Our feet are brushing breaths at the tips. An innocent curiosity splits my gaze, and I count four other people about this hellbound chariot, all in dull grey suits. Everyone’s eyes are warm and glossy. “That explains it, no worries,” I mumble. Those awake slosh their heads in my direction. We must all be tranquilized, for their stares are calm and milky, with a shallow shadow of an earnest attempt to figure out all of life’s mysteries at once. It is as if they are in REM sleep but their eyes are too weary to move, in a state of contented paralysis.

            All at once, each of us is freed from the strapped seats. The gates at both ends of the ship open, and cool elixir flows in as the air escapes out into the cosmos. Those that have not yet stirred will never stir again. With a half-breath in my lungs, I spring from my seat and out into the vastness. And there in the middle of nothing, is a complex of crudely fashioned futuristic mobile compounds connected in maze of poorly thought out engineering. I begin to swim desperately, without cause. The emptiness is thick around me and it is difficult to propel myself. Several feet from the station my lack of belief tickles at my neck once more. I relax, release my last breath, and lean back to allow the rays of a waning star to cleanse my face. An inert suicide is just as good as anything else. And just as everlasting darkness dreams over me, an arm grasps me about the shoulder and –

            I wake once more to the blossoming tranquilizer induced amnesia. The chin-headed man stands over me smiling as much as his conscience allows. The room is painted with people. “Only three of your six made it.” “Made it where?” I ask. “To the station: a cosmic prison of sorts. There are many of us here,” or so a woman behind me says. No one knows much else, we have no control and there appears to be little hope of anything.

         They begin to discuss the complex and I lose interest, drift off, longing for home. I see the sun properly this time, peeking through a window behind the crowd. It seems distant and red. My head rolls down as if drawn, and opposite the sun I spy an even bigger blue star. “There’s two suns!” I exclaim. “Yeah we’re a long way from Earth, Dorothy,” crackles someone, and the night outside rushes in once more.    

            The very next morning, whilst I was asleep, another ship arrived. Only two made it this time. I am no less in the Land of Oz, my blood still pumps sweet. Aboard the transport is a ragged youngster who looks no novice to tranquilizers or drugs of any sort, and a six year old girl in a bright red dress. In my state I cannot grasp the shock and scurry away, melting into a corner. “Sh-she killed…others on board,” barks the druggy. “Doorman st-t-t-tepped out.” The room clears and I am left to baby sit.

            She glides towards me, her arms lifeless at her sides. I stare at the enigma, the only one dressed in color, and all at once she is upon me. “Where’s your convict badge?” I offer a squeak. Transcending my mind, she pinches a nerve with two nimble fingers shortly below my groin, and with the other hand slowly grips my right forearm, and with colossal strength begins bending it in all directions at once. Immobile with fear or pain, my mind reels with a sudden overriding surge in the drug. “Go ahead, break it off, I don’t need three.”

            Imprisoned in my own listless mind, I am a convict indeed.

 

2006