Locked In

When did this collar appear around my neck? How long did it take me to find the other end of the chain, which was driven into the ceiling of the large room in my apartment? How long did it take me to realize the chain was only long enough to move around the rooms, wander down the hallway, touch the windows with my outstretched hand, and try to grab the front door handle—all to no avail? I must have been locked in here for a long time (or so I feel, since the clock has stopped). The sky outside is a gloomy gray, always covered in a sheet of leaden clouds. How many times, hanging from this chain, have I tried to rip it from the ceiling? To no avail. Then I tried to hang myself—but it didn't work. No, not because I was afraid of death, but because, after hanging for fifteen minutes from a hastily constructed noose, I realized that up until then I had been breathing "out of habit." Because a person needs air—but now, as it turns out, they don't.

I used to return to this apartment five days a week, twelve months a year, with rare exceptions, and there were no problems. But sometimes I'd be acutely aware that no one was inside—that by turning the key and unlocking the door, I'd be inside and alone—and then a wave of dread would wash over me. Sometimes I even had to smoke a couple of cigarettes before entering. By the way, when did they run out? If I could see the future, I'd take my paycheck, buy cartons of some Java brand, and fill the balcony with cigarettes. That would be extremely useful in the current situation, since I can't even open a window, let alone put on my sneakers and head to the kiosk for cigarettes. It's a disaster, to say the least.

 The colors began to fade over time, and for a couple of months, let's say, I've been observing a rather saturated gray-gray palette, variegated with every shade of gray mixed with gray. For me, this apartment seemed like an escape from the street, with its eternal rabble, alcoholics, and people in general, but the escape ended the moment I crossed the threshold. Silence... I immediately unlocked the windows so I could hear the "outside world," turned on music, and if it was dark, then a light, occupied myself with whatever. I didn't even notice that at some point the walls began to close in, the hallway became narrower, the windows smaller, the darkness thicker. I simply occupied myself with whatever I could, not paying attention to such "little things," and then—bang! — and you wake up, chained to the ceiling, alone, completely alone, with former neighbors occasionally scurrying up and down the stairs, the chatter of street urchins and the drunken cries of alcoholics—basically, all the things that irritated you terribly in your past life, or, perhaps, in your entire life; things that now give you hope and, at least in some illusory way, save you from loneliness.

If only someone, anyone would come, say a simple "hello," and talk to me. It would be wonderful. Now I have so much to tell, so much to listen to... Dreams. I forgot to mention that when I recently looked into the apartment's only mirror, I screamed hysterically for half an hour, or rather, wheezed or snorted—the kind of sound they usually make when the dead suddenly come back to life in all sorts of B-movie horror films. So, the person I was talking to would likely shit their pants and disappear into thin air in less than a minute. Another "disappointment" to add to the long list of disappointments in the afterlife. So, using some tools lying around on the balcony, a chain, and a couple of scraps of metal, I made some shackles to somehow detain the potential interlocutor and encourage them to talk to me. After all, if they disappeared, someone would start looking for them, right? He'll come here—and bam, another conversationalist, and then another, and another, and another... Guys, it's so cozy here, I clean here a lot, I need to occupy myself with something, let's sit and talk about anything, please, I miss talking so much... Silence, nothing but silence, nothing but grayness, and no one...

Stop, someone's fiddling with the rusty door lock. Just open up, just come in! Friend, I have so much to tell you!