I love to sail forbidden seas and land on barbarous coasts."
-- Herman Melville, "Moby Dick".
Twelve months were nearly up. A long twelve months, the longest of his life.
He lay on the bed in his cell, watching the sun flick shadows on the walls. Televisions from neighbouring cells hummed in the background, buzzing in his ears like mosquitos. "What is the capital of Yemen?" a quiz show voice blared from one wall. Bang! Bang! Bang! Gunfire rang out from the other side.
He didn't use his television, preferring to think quietly or read. He had read a lot in twelve months -- far more than he would have on the outside. The last book still echoed in his brain. "Farenheit 451". A book about books. Using books as a metaphor for independent thinking. For figuring things out for yourself - trying to make sense of it all.
He had been trying to make sense of it all for as long as he could remember. Trying to work it all out. But instead of wisdom he found craziness instead. The visions came unbidden and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
They scared him. They showed him other worlds beyond the normal. Whispered of many lands beyond the concrete one he grew up in. Terrified, he'd crouch under the covers, shaking his head, trying to block them off.
But they had a life of their own and he couldn't shut them down. He respected them as much as he feared them, wanting to understand them, but no-one could help him. He had no spirit helper, no guide in the strange worlds which he knew, deep down, could be wonderful if only he could navigate them.
His mother, even more terrified than he was, tried to make sense of it by telling the doctors, and they didn't even bother to try make sense of it because they already knew he was 'schizophrenic'.
By the time he was twenty he was medicating himself. And if anyone asked what was wrong with him, 'schizophrenic', he'd tell them. But he got so bad he couldn't even write his name when he went to sign on and he knew if he didn't come off the drugs he'd be dead soon. It was hard -- really hard -- but eventually he did it and his head slowly started to clear.
Sometimes he got angry at how those doctors had lied to him, kept him in a chemical straightjacket for so long. He thought of the scientists who rubbed hairspray in rabbits' eyes, or cloned sheep. The ones that thought nothing of drowning a dog just to see how many times he clawed at the surface before he went under. The little boys who liked to pull legs off spiders, now getting paid for their efforts.
He read all the time in his cell. Til it felt like his brain was bleeding and he couldn't take any more. Then he'd get up the next day and read some more. He read that five million kids starve to sleep each night, millions of acres of forest are destroyed each week, entire species of animals go extinct each day. He got a pain in his chest and tears in his eyes and felt a terrible anger burning inside. And still he kept reading.
Shadows whispered on the walls in the bright sunshine. Flickering about him as he lay and thought. They didn't scare him anymore. Sometimes he could hear drumming, a faint distant drum beating a steady rhythm. Boom, boom! Boom, boom! Like a heart beat. He saw fire splashing about and figures dancing naked, swirling to the beat...
He read about the witch hunts - how millions burned and drowned by reasonable people in their own communities. Patterns were beginning to emerge. Patterns of control and domination. Of fear and stupidity.
What went wrong? Peter wondered. How did we get in such a mess?
He dreamt one night he was living in the forest. He felt the feelings of the life around him and they were good. He ran and jumped, feeling joyful, excited. Suddenly a machine appeared and grabbed him. It put him in an iron cage with other humans. He could see through the bars there was different cages for wolves, and bears, and owls and for as far as he could see -- cages of animals. Between the cages were stacks of dead plants and rocks. He could hear them moaning softly. Their cries joined those of the humans and the wolves howling, bears roaring, wild cats screeching. A song of pain and anger rising from the deep forest. Rising up through the green. Sounding a desperate rhythm.
He woke sweating and uncomfortable in the middle of the night, staring out into the darkness.
A way of living, like a sickness, spreading from thousands of years ago, infecting all who breathe its noxious fumes. An abberation, a glitch -- which managed, through stupidity and cowardice to take hold.
Peter cried out in pain and relief.
"It's not me!" he shouted, "It's the set-up!"
"Shut up you fucking nutcase!" Someone in the next cell roared. "You hearing those voices in your head again."
Some of the other prisoners laughed, eager for any break in the monotony.
"Go fuck yourself." Peter thought, "You'll never hear anything in your head except the sound of bars clanging."
He lay on the bed and listened to the tv in the neighbouring cells. He could hear the bars clanging too, but it didn't seem to bother him anymore. He smiled. I can hear the bars now. But it doesn't matter anymore...