Alcatraz
Who is she? The woman glides in and out of sight. From the corner of his eyes, she’s gone when he turns. Mists in the light, neverending white. Every night it’s the same, never catching a clear view. Sometimes he remembers the raven hair, others the feline glitter of her hazel eyes. Tonight it was an innocent come-hither half smile. He felt like he could almost grasp her name, the sweet taste of it on his tongue. The closer she is ignites a feeling about who he was.
Alcatraz was taken away from the cool calming realm with the sounds of yelling. Two of his bunkmates were arguing over something. There were always echoes of fighting and arguments in the background. He didn’t know how long he’d been here in this nightmare underworld. Had it been weeks, months, years? He remembers the first day, his first memory. A towering overly muscular dark-skinned man slapped his face, it was a quick sharp stab “Your name’s Alcatraz! This is your life now. You fight, you live, you die. The longer you fight, the longer you live. Be ready, tonight you’re making your debut to the crowd!” He felt the sweaty smooth scalp of his head. He remembers thinking it felt too smooth, newly shaven, raw. This was before his head was covered with new scabs over old scars that gave it its now rocky texture. Since that day he’s been training and fighting. How many lives had he sniffed out in the pit? The faces of his victories blurred into shadows. Specters that created numbness in his mind. A deep hole of darkness in his soul. He was alive unlike his past opponents but trapped in waves of pain, blood, carnage, and death. It was only in his dreams that he felt free, remembering what life out of the pits might be like. She was his lifeline, the woman he visited in his safe harbor. Was she a loved one from his former life or maybe the final piece of his decomposed soul that had any hope of being redeemed? Before every fight, he sneaks away to the light. Reaching for the warmth only she could give.
“Alcatraz your up!” He slides off the blood-stained mattress of his squeaky bunk. Wraps his left forearm with the yellowed bandages he uses for simple armor. Lifts his helmet, a mismatched cage of rusted and dented lead pipes. Slips his head in it and places it on his weary shoulders. Grabs his signature battle chain with the muscle-ripping hook and mechanically walks toward the area’s inner doors. The vibrations of the spectator’s roar ripple through the floor up his body. Tonight he would fight again for the bosses, kill for them. His life was their plaything, but they would never completely have his soul. Every day she would free it in his dreams.
This blog post was originally published on my former website, Comic Book Graphic Design and has now been migrated here to RSC Arts, Artist Blog.
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