On a Sunday, my head jerks and my eyes dart open. Exhausted, emaciated, I close my eyes and shiver in the cold air blowing form the dirtied vent above me. I keep my eyes closed, and muster my strength. The kind strong enough to shoot me through the expectations. The kind of strength that forces my frozen blood to run through my boiling veins and make me shake even more.
This strength shocks me, and I feel.
I feel myself - my shoulders, my biceps, my fingertips, my chest, my lungs, my hips, my rested quadriceps. My kneecaps, ankles and toes come to life.
I feel myself, breaking.
I feel the strap around my forehead snapping like a cracked windshield, and I feel my neck come loose from its shackles. I feel my forearms, exploding from their handcuffs, letting my hands free. I feel my feet, slipping out of the ropes containing them. And I feel myself, rising again.
I feel the ground beneath me - solid, wooden - as it grips the soles of my feet. I feel the breeze, over my bare scalp, scathing my unharmed skin.
I feel power.
And immediately, I feel weakness - as my knees give out beneath me, folding at their seams from my weight’s pressure. I feel the ground again - this time at my side, as my body crashes to the wood beside my cell. I feel it above my left ear, as my head collides with its fate.
And again, I feel nothing - only blackness, as the light bulbs inside my skull shut off, one after another.
All that I feel now, is a sigh.
And I see everything.
