I am writing this to you from the confines of a small prison, centered in the middle of a vast and dry wilderness. As to how I arrived here, I am unsure. All I remember are the sounds of the rustling autumn leaves, and the crackling my legs made as they were broken by angry faced, balaclava clothed "rainbow men".
At night I can hear the bobcat's call, but am careful not to heed it, for many a lonely soul has befallen the trickery of their elusive and seductive song. At times I am tempted to follow their peaceful growl, but force myself to remain strong. It is difficult to keep my wits about me in this climate: the temperature has peaked in the high triple digits, and my fingers are beginning to sweat off. It is starting to affect my mental health, and deconstruct my scruples.
The other inmates, all unanimously convicted of crimes against humanity, are my only source of communication with the outside world. All of them are allowed televisions and radios, and kindly blare them loud enough for me to hear, even while I sleep. Apparently everything is doing very well, which makes me long for the outside world and its fresh, Lethe-breathed air. Much to my dismay, I have been put on probation from all forms of technology, including cutlery, for simply walking with a slight limp in the courtyard, so any scrap of information I can get my hands on becomes worth more to me than gold.
My ability to write this to all of you comes from an idea I had based on a technique used in the film "Quills" (which I spent the majority of my time watching on the outside). The Marquis de Sade (myself in this situation) had all of his writing utensils removed from his cell (albeit a much nicer one than my own). He then began to devise ways of communicating his rather controversial stories through the use of his own blood, and a chicken bone. How exciting! Writing and writing away, he managed to complete an entire bawdy tale on his clothing, handing them off to the laundry lass to be taken for publishing in some exhibitionist friendly press in the filthy bowls of mid-revolutionary France.
This concept is so ingenious to me, that I decided to put it into play, and write an entire book based on my experiences in this small prison, using only a chicken bone as a pen, my blood as ink, and my t-shirt, socks, and boxer-shorts as paper (for the "rainbow men" have removed all of my other clothes from the cell, declaring them fascist in nature). When the food cart came around, I ordered the half grilled chicken with the balsamic glaze and rice pilaf. I quickly extracted the longest, most durable chicken bone I could find, and began to sharpen it against the floor of my cell.
With the endless amount of time on my hands, I began putting all of my extra energy into pushing as much blood out of my body as possible, first making a small incision on my chest with the now razor sharp chicken bone. This proved a difficult inkwell, given the inclination of blood to obey the laws of gravity. My next choice for a little cut was my neck, near that life flowing, palpitating protrusion known as the carotid, but I didn't get the steady flow I was hoping for, only a light spray. Finally I settled on the wrist of my left hand, seeing as how I am right handed. However, I was again presented with more of a "gush" than a "trickle".
Coming to terms with the horrible failure of my original plan, I decided to collect all of the wasted blood that had pooled up on the floor of my cell into a small, shallow hole I found under my dirty mattress. When the guards were not looking, I began my process. Writing and writing by the moonlight, or by the stinging florescent lamps haunting my everyday, seam after seam was covered with my every thought, action, and experience. How wonderful it is to be able to write again! Just the jotting of my thoughts onto polyester is enough to send my mind to beautiful places, and away from all this decrepit, disgusting depression. I knew that following the instructions given in "Quills" to the "t" would not lead me astray! What joy I felt! What pleasantries! Even the glowing beauty of freedom caressed my bearded cheek!
Sadly, I followed the instructions too closely, and accidentally transcribed "Justine", by the Marquis himself. Perhaps I should have known that this was the case when I began writing the title.
With my plan in ruins, and body deprived of essential fluids, I sank into my chair, staying in that position for the next few days. Without the proper medical attention I seem to have contracted a number of debilitating diseases, including spasmodic dysphonia, and vestibulodynia. Life is for the living, sure, but who wants to live like this? When the "rainbow men" finally found my nearly lifeless body in the dank cell, they immediately checked on the other prisoners, then went to bed. A few weeks later, they randomly brought in a stretcher, and hoisted me onto it. Sprinting through the corridors of the prison, my fatigue worn body bouncing feather-like above them, the guards brought me to the small clinic.
They placed me on the bed closest to the window, so I could have a calming, healing view of the nuclear power plant next door. I have been here, awaiting my recovery, for the past six years, slowly gaining back my lost weight, blood, and hair. The doctors have ordered me to remain on a strict diet of muscle relaxers and Christmas candy, a diet that I am a bit reluctant to follow. But when a gun is placed in your mouth, any confusion regarding dietary regiments melts away.
Apart from their questionable prescriptions, the doctors have been very kind to me. If a fly lands on my body, they are more than happy to pull out the scalpel and attack it. Also, they have furnished me with an endless supply of notebook paper and pens, so that I may finally write down my experiences, and put them behind me.
Recently it was revealed to me that the guards discovered my blood-written clothing, and read what was scrawled upon it. Apparently they have deemed the text "obscene" and "fascist", and, believing me to be the original author, have decided to extend my sentence in this prison to another fifteen years, with each year interval to be celebrated by a Whipping Tribunal. A Whipping Tribunal is apparently a situation where all of the guards, and certain celebrated prisoners, are permitted to beat a select inmate (myself in this situation) 365 times each. Perhaps I deserve it.
The sun is setting now, and the bobcats are out. From my bed I can see them leaping from rain-smoothed rock to rain-smoothed rock. Such effortless freedom! The doctors leave, and the "rainbow men" climb into my bed, knocking me to the floor like they do every night. Should I take my life? Should I force myself through the next fifteen years? Or do I dare take heed the bobcat's call?
