Prison Dreamcaster

“One year is three hundred and sixty-five days…” I scribbled the figure on the paper. “…with an extra one added for leap year. Fuck! That’s one hundred and seventy-five thousand, three hundred and twenty hours…”

The mathematics was coming easily. I picked up speed, the pencil scratching figures into the paper.

“Ten million, five hundred and nineteen thousand minutes. Let’s see… at sixty heartbeats a minute for twenty years…” I scribbled furiously, haphazardly drawing the final number. I stared at it, then dropped the pencil and closed my eyes.

“We're talking about my heart wearing out…”

The day stretched into night and my depression continued to worsen. I refused to sleep. I fought the demons. Every parry… every blow chipped another small piece of me away. I kept thinking about her. She claimed to love me. She had spurned any thought of abandoning me, or leaving me, or finding comfort in another’s arms. She tried to reassure me at every possible moment that I was the man she loved. She didn’t care how long, or at what cost… she was my, and I was hers. I tried to believe her. I wanted to believe her. I had to believe her.

Somewhere, just before dawn, as I wiped away the tears of the most recent battle with my heart, I came to a conclusion. If I truly loved her, I had to set her free.

I looked at the worn-out Marlboro box. “To hell with it!”

I fished out a precious little stub of a stolen butt retrieved from an ashtray and carefully set it ablaze. I drew the smoke deep within my lungs, letting the nicotine work its magic. With three quick drags, the tiny bit of tobacco disappeared. My thumb and forefinger were burned, but I felt no pain. I sat there staring at my stained fingers as the morning bloomed around me. It wasn’t until the guard hollered “Mail!” that anything pierced the growing stupor of my depression. Even then, the guard had to holler my name twice before I realized I was summoned.

“You got… one!”

Trance-like, I took the envelope and stumbled back into my cell. I watched my fingers open the seal and extract the letter. The handwriting was intricate lace and I found myself reading and rereading the words trying to extract some meaning from the tightly woven threads of letters and words. She had gotten my poem and was worried. She lamented that there were 41 more days before our next visit, 9 more days before the sweet relief of the monthly phone call… the five uninterrupted minutes of hearing each other’s voice. She wrote of daily things... the little battles of simple life.

Mostly, she was worried. She sensed my despair… my surrender.

A smaller sheet of scented, embossed paper fluttered to the floor. I reached down and retrieved it. She had written me a poem.

****************************************

Stone

Like two hearts
waiting to be
freed from stone
etched by some sculptor's hand
we stand
apart
yet are one

and the stone breathes

****************************************

Under those few simple lines of verse she had written six short words.

I read them again. Then, I read them again. I dropped the paper on my bunk and wandered out into the common room. I needed a smoke! Someone had to have one for me. Someone had to give me one. There had to be someone in that cursed hell that would give this condemned man his final cigarette. I stumbled from rejection to rejection until I came to the new guy.

“Bum a smoke, bro?”

Whether out of fear, or loathing, or simply not caring, the guy reached into his pocket and pulled out three sleek sticks of tobacco and held them up. The guy never looked up from the table. A few seconds passed.

“You want’em, or not?”

I reached out and snatched the cigarettes, mumbling some sort of thanks. Somehow finding my way back to my cell, I searched for my matchbook and with trembling fingers lit the end of the smoke. I reached down and carefully lifted the pale, scented paper. The words were still there.

“You are my life… marry me.”

I felt light-headed as a confusing blend of joy and regret swirled around me. The poem was so simple. No wasted words. No stilted music. My mind began to replay the quiet refrain… “One stone, two hearts, one breath”. It was simple. “One… two… one. One to one, and the stone breathes.”

“I can’t marry you… I can’t.”

I was feeling frantic… frenetic. I was a mouse in a cage, a rat in a maze. I began doing a nervous shuffle step… slide right and touch the wall, slide left and touch the wall. Breathing was becoming difficult.

“I can’t marry you. I can’t. How can I ask you to tether yourself to me? I’m here, condemned to another twenty years of pacing this cell and sweeping floors for cigarettes. I’m hiding from the strong. I’m hiding from the weak. I’m counting minutes and hours as if listening to the clock makes the day go faster…”

I was literally bouncing off the walls, slamming my shoulders against the cold concrete. I was ricocheting from side to side in the six by nine chamber of torture. I tried to stop. I wrapped my arms around my chest, holding on… willing me to stop. My heart hurt. My head was pounding. I stood in the center of my little world as the despair swallowed me. I took shallow breaths. They were coming faster and faster and I finally realized I was hyperventilating. I shook my head and then collapsed on the bunk, crushing the sweet-scented paper beneath me. Tears were streaking my cheek as the weight of the next twenty years began to crush the remaining tender parts of my soul.

It took me nearly an hour to regain control.

By the time I finally restored order to my rampant emotions, I realized I had made a decision. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t marry her. I couldn’t let her make that mistake. I couldn’t ask her to willingly condemn herself to a lifetime of stolen moments. I couldn’t ask her to live from phone call to phone call, visit to visit. I couldn’t ask her to surrender the chance to have children… she so wanted to be a mother. We had spent hours upon hours discussing how there was nothing more joyful… no gift from God more sweet than bringing another life into the world. There was no greater celebration of life than giving life. How could I ask her to let that dream go, as if it were nothing more than a balloon loosened in the wind?

I realized I had cocooned into the fetal position and was so tightly holding on to myself that my muscles ached. I began to mutter to myself.

“You fucking asshole. You’ve already ruined your own life… now she wants you to ruin hers… all because you love her… because she loves you. At least, she thinks she does…”

Swinging my legs over the edge, I sat up in the bunk. The crinkling of the paper underneath me seemed to strengthen my resolve. I reached under my butt and pulled the poem free. Despite the thoughtless abuse my tantrum had reigned upon the small sheet of paper, the words still sung out in perfect clarity.

“You are my life… marry me.”

Slowly, like the fog retreating before my dream, I settled upon my solution. “Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone…”

I let the scented paper drift to the floor and began to slowly rock. Each pendulum swing of my body marked the silent, tortured passage of another lost moment. I continued my rocking until the morning finally wound its way through the melee of midday. Even then, I did not stop. I refused to eat. I refused to stand, or move from the hard edge of my bunk. I continued rocking. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

The day continued its inevitable march toward night. I kept thinking about her. She claimed to love me. She had spurned any thought of abandoning me. I had to release her from that vow… that promise borne out of another life, another time.

The misery of the shadows in my cell had long since surrendered to blackness as the ragged noise of night drifted along the cellblock. My mouth was parched, and my tongue dragged its sandpaper dryness over the roof of my mouth as I continued my quiet chant: “Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone… Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone…”

I fumbled in the dark for the tattered Marlboro box and extracted the second sleek, factory-rolled cigarette that I had scored from the new guy. I struck a match and carefully lit the end, drawing the delicious smoke into my lungs.

It was time.

I watched the match flame waver and sputter, burning down to my fingers. It felt icicle cold. When it finally expired, I dropped the remaining cinder onto the floor and reached for the plastic razor that was provided by the state. I flicked the ash from my cigarette and returned it to my lips as I struck another match. I held the flame to the plastic rivet that held the protective covering in place. There was a perverse satisfaction in watching the plastic shrivel and wilt. I carefully held the match to other side, and just as quickly, the second rivet shriveled.

I shook out the match and waited for my eyes to recover from the momentary blindness.

I peered through the darkness to the small piece of plastic in my hands. I slipped my fingernail under the edge of the still warm plastic and began to apply pressure. Slowly increasing my efforts, I gently pried the edge of the protective covering out of the way and dropped the plastic to the floor.

Cradling the thin, sliver of steel in my palm, I took the cigarette butt from my mouth and flicked the ashes into the pile at my feet. I stared at the butt, still glowing in my fingers. “There ought to be a ritual,” I said, muttering to myself.

Would she understand this ultimate sacrifice, this ultimate act of love?

I hungrily took the last drag from the butt, watching the compact fire burn into the filter, and then dropped the remaining ash into the pile. I carefully wedged the thin razor blade between my fingers, feeling the small piece of razor blade nestle perfectly between my fore and middle fingers. It was part me. I could feel the warmth of my fingers slowly heating the silvery slip of steel until I felt no difference between my fingers and the metal.

I flexed my fingers and the slip of metal slashed through the night air like a raptor’s talon. I flexed them again and the blade cut more air. I glanced out through the small window at the night sky. There was no moon… no smoky clouds smudging the winking lights of the stars. The only thing greeting my stare was the silent black of another lost night.

“Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone… Forgive me, but I have to set you free.”

I could feel the tingle of goose bumps rising on the backs of my arms, the tickling pinpricks slipping up to the back of my neck. It was time. I slowly lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Without fanfare or hesitation I brought the little steel talon down across my wrist.

I felt nothing.

The last chants of the Reaper slowly slipped from my mind. The fog welled up, encasing me in silence and the darkness flickered, slowly retreating before the sun. It began to torch the sky in flames of red and orange… I could hear the soft calls of the loons and the water lapping at the shore. I could feel the warmth of the sun as it brushed the earth, chasing my shadow. My dreamland was coming into focus.

The familiar watercolor sunset swirled above me as the heady sweetness of the wood mixed with the thick moist scent of the pond. The late day heat began to bead mists of sweat on my back. I looked around. It was the same trees, the same pond, and the same path snaking up to the cabin.

But, it was a little too real.

My eyes slid over the picture before me, drinking in every detail. There was the gnarled trunk of the oak that squatted at the edge of the clearing… the stiff backs of the red pines… the mottled bark of the random cedar that had escaped the lumberjack’s axe… the gray-brown of the cabin and the smoke whisping from the stone chimney… My eyes welled up and instantly I was struck through by regret.

“God, what have I done?” Panic was coursing through me.

“This isn’t right. I love her more than life itself. I would do anything for her.” I could hear the gentle laughter of the loons in the background. “If I were free and she were in prison, I would happily wait for her… be strong for her… isn’t that what love is?” I stood on the path, the thick pine needles cushioning my feet from the hard-packed summer soil. “I’d love her for better, or for worse. I’d live my life waiting… because being apart, and willingly waiting, would be the purest show of love. And, I’d do it happily.”

The tears were coming freely. “Yet, I deny her that same chance at loving me?” A strangled sob worked its way out from my mouth.

“Oh, God… I’m so sorry... forgive me.”

I was fully crying now. The years of stoic denial breached the dam and my heart broke. I dropped to my knees, my sobs bouncing off the quietness of the wood. I closed my eyes and the torrent washed down my cheeks.

“God? Help me please…”

It may have been minutes, or it may have been hours, but when my tears finally stopped the sky was still a swirling watercolor of blood and orange. Smoke was still curling out from the cabin’s chimney like a signal from some captain’s house in the last century. All that was missing was the sight of her peering out to sea from the widow’s walk. I struggled to my feet and began wind my way through the remaining trees until I approached the cabin’s door.

My hand reached down and turned the latch. The memory of the country yard sale flashed through my mind. We had not only found the latch, but the two oil lanterns that graced the mantelpiece inside.

The door swung away and the smell of the hearth fire greeted me. I forced myself to not look in the direction of the fireplace where I knew she would be silhouetted by the backlight of the flames, her long white nightgown hiding the supple nakedness underneath. Instead, I took pleasure in letting my eyes drink in the interior of the cabin: the scattered tins and pictures adorning the walls, the old braided rug that defined the kitchen area from the rest of the great room, the wicker chairs and the painted rocker, the shelves full of books.

As my eyes settled on each, there were flashes of memory. The two of us picking up an item here, or bidding on another at some out-of-the-way estate auction… our smiles and little celebrations at each new acquisition. We had sensed that each was a part of our life together, a little piece of tomorrow… a quiet sign of permanence.

I was happy. I felt a joy that had been missing for the past year slowly creeping back into my soul. I drew a breath and looked to the fire. She was there, as I had known she would be. I stood there for a moment, drinking her in. Her eyes sparkled and flickered with the reflection of the flames.

“Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come over here and kiss me?”

It was her voice… but did she speak in my dream? Doubt tugged at the corner of my mind.

“Well?”

She had a playful pout twisted on her face. She held it for a moment before breaking into a smile. I walked across to her, arms out to gather her in. “She’s supposed to be facing the other way,” I thought.

I bent my face down, my lips seeking hers. She responded, pressing back with an urgency that bespoke her need for me. Our lips parted, the tip of my tongue reaching across to meet the fullness of her mouth, again exploring… searching… asking silent questions.

My hands slid to the small of her back and she melted against me. I splayed my fingers out, tracing light patterns along her sides as my thumbs brushed against her breasts. I could feel the stiffening pleasure as her nipples pressed against the thin silk of her robe. I caressed her sides, letting my hands drift to her buttocks. I began to throb, my firmness seeking the hollow of her loins.

I quickly sought the sash that closed the gown around her, loosened the cloth and let my hands slide over the milky softness of her skin. As her fingers brushed against me for the first time, I surrendered to my passion. I slid my hand behind her neck, grabbing a thick mane of her hair.

I pulled her against my chest and brought her lips to mine. I savored the luxury of exploring her mouth, dipping along the tender flesh inside her lips… the smoothness of her teeth… the firm wriggling of her tongue muscle captured in my lips. In my want, I roughly parted her tender lips and my tongue plunged into her sweet mouth. I crushed her lips beneath mine, forcefully sucking her tongue into my mouth, nipping the tip gently with my teeth before again driving deeply into hers.

She looked up at me with a look that spoke volumes. I knew that whatever I asked would be willingly given. She smiled at me with an intoxicating mixture of wanton surprise and naïve desire. Then again, it may well have been what I wanted to see… what I needed to see.

As her hands went to my pants, I brought my right hand to her breast and began to gently massage the warm, firm mound. My thumb found her thick, stiff nipple and I began to rub it gently, using my thumb to flirt with the supple nub. She flipped the tongue of my belt loose and unclasped my trousers effortlessly. There was no fumbling. Quite the contrary, she was peeling away my clothes with the deft agility of a courtesan. My zipper sung out softly as it slid down, following her fingers to the base of my lurching cock. She glanced up at me and smiled before gently pulling the elastic band of my shorts out over my happily dancing prick and pinned them below with her thumb.

I reluctantly pulled my hand away from her breast, giving her room to maneuver her face over my little waiting soldier that was impatiently standing at attention. As she brought her lips to the glistening head, she purposely exhaled, and the intoxicating warmth of her breath encircled me. I twitched in delight.

I slipped my hand under the silk that draped across her back and traced my fingers lightly along her spine, mirroring the movement of her lips over my cock. As her lips encircled me, her tongue washed over the bulbous head now in her mouth. I slid my fingers along her spine, over her panties and down into the cloth covered hollow. I kneaded her buttocks, feeling the smooth pink material as it slid under my fingers. Pressing my fingers together, I dipped my finger paddle into the moist recesses that slithered up to her vagina. I continued to dip my fingers again, and again, matching the plunging motion of her mouth.

She slowly drew her mouth back, and hovered just above the fleshy helmet. Her tongue fluttered, and the tip of my cock was lost in a seeming flock of butterflies, little wings beating gently against my stamen. The moist wings of the butterflies disappeared as her full, perfectly matched lips formed an “O”. She drew her breath in, and the coolness of that rushing air caused the nerve endings in my foreskin to twitter. Then I was plunged into the dark, wet recess of her mouth. Her fingers led her mouth and were jammed at the base of my scrotum, the tight ring of fingers flexed firmly against my sac. My heartbeat fell in line, seemingly marching to the cadence of her hand.

It was becoming harder and harder for me to focus. I wanted to ease my head back, close my eyes and surrender to the assaulting forces of her mouth. I chose, instead, to continue with my own movements around her flanks.

My fingers continued winnowing into the furrow between her legs. Her panties were drenched with the flow of juices that I was raising from her loins. After probing and caressing the expanse of panty covered flesh, I withdrew my hand, preparing to slide the dark, pink silk over her delectable, firm butt.

My sexual heat gave me pause, and I brought my hand to my lips. The pungent scent of her curled through my nose, and I drew it in, letting its essence seep into the dark, hidden parts of me. I ran my tongue over the sweet, viscous nectar that glistened on my fingers, tasting the rawness of her. My chest tightened in rampant want.