Simon Ezra-Jackson

School: George Watson’s College


Yesterday it was Christmas. I know because they gave me a special sweater and a nicer ‘meal’ for lunch. It is eleven years to the day since I arrived in this place.

I get meals through a slot. I shit in a bucket. I sleep nights on a hard, unfurnished slab. That pretty much sums up my life right now. They used to give me books to read, until after I started to slice my skin with the pages. Now I sit and rock gently and try to distract myself from the walls.

The whitewashed walls surround me always. They enclose me, containing me and confining me. I stare at these walls, stare at them so much that they speak to me. They mock me. As you cower, they say, and scream, and scratch us we laugh. We get closer and closer, tighter and tighter, until you can’t breathe or move. We are the Walls and you will die between our blank surfaces.

They say I am dangerous. That it is for my own safety that I am locked between my tormentors day and night. Once a week a therapist comes and talks to me. I see the words coming out of her mouth, spiralling up towards the ceiling. But I cannot understand what she wants me to do or say. I try to tell her about the walls but every time I begin to my voice fails.

I haven’t been here forever though. I once lived outside the walls, in a small southwest frontier town. But those memories disappear with startling speed. All I can remember now is hardwood planks. And the taste of cool lemonade. And even those memories will fade away. One day I am scared they will leave me completely.

Anyway, I will be going now. My new sweater is hanging from a beam far above. I will join it soon, and hopefully taste green lemonade again.

As the life drained out of him, the walls cradled his body as if it were a newborn baby.

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