Author's Note: This piece was inspired off a piece found at the Milwaukee Art Museum and as seen at the bottom I am still working on this piece. I was trying to succeed in a fictional piece here and I have struggled with this in the past so we will see how this turns out.
Each day I wake up at 7:53 on the dot, sit up, look around and move towards the door. I look into the hallway, turn right and walk down the steps left foot first. I precisely stroll down the carpeted stairs two at a time and look through the glass door with “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY” written in bold, red letters. With both arms I push the glass door open and the sunlight makes a spotlight for my ruffled light brown hair and plaid pajamas.To my left an old man, Alfred, sells apples to the people of the streets. I walk to him, place my hips parallel to the stand, place my hands on my hips and ponder which type of apple I should choose. I debate the choice for forty seven seconds and then pick the gala. I pay Alfred the two dollars that he asks for and an extra fifty cents for a tip. I turn my right heel, and head back to my apartment with the rhythm of a machine. Over the next four hours I sit at this typewriter, here, and just write. Adventure mostly, about a man Wilson.
Wilson was a man of average stature, which ruffled light brown hair, and deep bags under his eyes. By day, he worked in a factory downtown with little pay but at least it was pay. By night, he was down at the shipyards doing acts the police may not exactly approve of, but they didn't understand. This was the only way he could stay afloat, and keep his family of three from starving. The dark characters of the lake swiftly grazed across the water in their surprisingly not-so-subtle yachts. Men in sunglasses and black suits would get out and take the cases from Wilson. The tentacles squirmed through the cracks of the wooden crates and slapped up against the walls pleading for mercy. Just like Wilson. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to do this. But he had to. For his family. For himself.
As he turned his thick chest around, he heard the click of a door. He paused and analyzed the space in front of him. Two men in blue uniforms and with Magnum 44s rose above the horizon. Wilson took off running. In high school he was a sprinter, but that was a long time ago. He stumbled over the dips of the rocky landscape and his whole body felt out of sync. The police chased behind, arms pumping, eyes glaring. The space between Wilson and the pursuers tightened and tightened and with a small trip of Wilson he was in handcuffs with his face against the police car windshield.
After days of interrogation, Wilson was sent to a state prison, and was sentenced to fifteen years there. He was a curious man to the guards and prisoners there. At first he started out like any other prisoner, trying to act tough but truly scared on the inside. He didn’t talk much and when he did he spoke of few words. Though the prison already had a sense of order and routine, Wilson’s meticulous routine was noticeable to others and quite frankly queer to them. Each day, he would go to the Lunch Room and go to the same line, sit down at the same table, and get the same food. All the while, he seemed to be counting each pace that he took and his eyes calculated the exact length his steps needed to be to get to one spot in the correct time. Odd glances would be thrown at him, but he didn’t care. Or notice.
After eight minutes of chewing on his apple, he would stand up, exactly perpendicular to the ground, walk to the left side of the trash can, and place, not throw, the apple core in. He would then turn and take three hundred and sixty-four steps (rumor has it) back to his cell.
Wilson wasn’t OCD, shall I say, before he got persecuted. He was a free soul, but once he got locked up he got the notion that he needed to be perfect to right himself from the wrongs that he not only did to the government, but to his family and friends. In his quest to get him back on track, he was slowly losing his personality and sanity and he was heading for a world of darkness. Even to some of the darkest men in all of society it was unnerving to see a man such as Wilson take such a turn for the worse and they began to avoid him at all costs.
If you happened to walk past his cell which was the third from the right of the back wall, you would see him sitting at iron desk, hands face down laying on the rusting surface. His brows were furrowed and his body was rigid. He would spend all time in his cell doing this unless he was sleeping which he did not do often.
I personally liked writing about Wilson because he was a curious man that people just didn’t understand. It was something that people like me could relate to, but his faults were obvious. The mistakes he made were unforgettable and stupid. Just stupid! Why would he do that to his family? He had a good home but he ruined it all with not just one stupid thing, but multiple. He frustrated the reader and that was the art of him.
I heard a knock on the door and let it be. A second knock came again and I turned my head but I didn’t want to see anybody. Accompanied by the third was “Time to come out.” With this, I stood up straight, took seventeen paces to the door, much like Wilson, and turned the doorknob. I walked out with them thinking about Wilson. Thinking about his past, and what he could have been. Contemplating this is how I enjoyed to spend my time this way, but frankly it was the only thing I could do.
To Be Continued
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