Blue Jay

Blue Jay

Blue Jay

Jay has been confined in a pristine prison of white. But finding her cell door left open affords her the opportunity of exploration. Just how big is the place in which she is being held? Where is it that she is being held? Why are all the other cells empty? Despite not seeing anyone else, she knows that she is not alone in there. She knows that they are watching, the ones who bring her food when she’s asleep. The ones who write in her journal.


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I have spent one night in confinement. I have no idea of how long I may be held here against my will. It matters not to me of how I came to be here, but why, is a question that refuses to be siphoned from my cognisance.

What are my crimes?

I awoke this morning to be surrounded by these very walls from which I relate this plight.

I have no knowledge of how I came to be here, I have no recollection of being manhandled or enduring a journey that carried me here. I can’t believe that I came here under my own direction, maybe under some spell of sleepwalking, because that to me makes no sense. Why would I imprison myself? Why would anybody? More so, how would I have had means of locking myself securely in? The door is locked. I have tried. God, I how I’ve tried.

Where is this place?

What is this place?

It is eerie. I have heard no human voice of accompaniment, nor any wails or cries of some poor soul having been taken by insanity. I imagined a prison would be full of these screams, curdling my blood as it coursed through my veins in fear. Instead all I hear are the noises that I myself make, the sounds of my echoing footfalls on this cold floor accompanying my shallow breathing.

I’m a little calmed now. No less scared, just calmer.

This cell is clinically white and imperiously clean. Upon first impression, I had to convince myself that this was not a room for the insane, such is its resemblance. The overall size of the room is no more than 7 paces in length and five in width. The only door to this room is almost solid (again a brilliant white) but for a small square three-quarters of the way up which is made of 8 thick steel verticals bars. There is no lock visible from the inside, and this door intimidates me more than any other factor.

In here against the brilliant white, I would be impossible to conceal anything, should I have a tool to fashion an escape with. The purity of the whiteness would show up everything that was not allowed. I am dressed too in a white, cotton gown. I have a small bunk, which is barely long enough to fit my body on and a wooden table, again finished in white, but with no chair. To use this desk, I either must kneel beside it, which hurts my knees, or draw it close to the bunk so that I can sit upon its edge. Upon this table I found this white book in which I write. The black markings that this lone pen makes upon its pages are the only thing around me that is not pure white. There is one small glass window looking out to the world, but it is positioned too high within the wall for me to see from ground height. I will need to fashion a stool to look out of. Brilliant sunlight found its way in here this morning, making the walls burn brighter. Thin shadows of the bars that guard the window were thrown obscurely across the floor and over the walls. Unfortunately these shadows were too small to find shelter in, so I took a position of being seated on the floor directly underneath the window. As most of the sunlight burned against the wall opposite, my body was kept from the warmth of the invading sun by the small patch of shade that was offered.