Surrounded by scratched and scarred, cold metal walls. I ponder. A machine, small enough to, like me, call this prison a home? A beast, so strong it could etch it’s message into this man-made barricade?

Hints of color catch my eye. Unable to stand. The ceiling is too low, I crawl. Scraping my knees and palms against the rough beneath me. Browns and yellows, bleed into oranges and reds. Is this an ominous sign of things to come?

Remanence of a prior guest. Consumed with panic, fear, desperation or… hope?

My pupils are stretched wide aimlessly seeking light if only to better identify these stains. How much closer can I get before I see nothing at all? Perhaps, one more drag of my worn body against this floor is necessary.

There, so beautifully simple. It’s depth, it’s story is so clear. Art exists even in the absence of light and life. Only knowing the sound of your own voice for so long, imagine the serene sound of scratching metal.

“Boom, boom” I hear from outside this… canvas. They’ve come for me.

View this story's 2 comments.