I drowse awake again as the light begins to stream in from the large window. For the umpteenth time, I try to fall asleep again, but my bladder is far too full for that. The crook of my neck itches, and I raise my hand to wipe it, only to be reminded of my mitted and restrained hands. Everything stinks, everything itches, everything tickles, but no matter how I tug and tug, the metal refuses to give. It is deeply infuriating. Will there be a day when the rubber comes off? Will there be a day I can finally breathe fresh air? I hate it, hate the itchy and sweaty suit on my skin, hate the mask which stops up my air each time I try to breathe too deeply.
A jingling of metal on metal reminds me of the bunch of keys, goading me with their closeness. Freedom is close: I can feel it each time my mitts paw at the keys, each time they brush past the jingling metal without being able to grip them, so close and yet so far. So close, so close the jingling seems to say, and yet the promise of freedom, of getting out of the suit remains just that, a promise dangling just out of reach. But I paw at the hope of escape all the same, my mitts pressing at the keys, trying to get them off the ring, refusing to give up no matter how many times I feel them slip from my grasp.
It is so simple for him to take the keys, use them to leash me where he likes, dangle them between my paws before snatching them away, yet I am utterly helpless even with the keys pressing against my hands, trapped in the thick mittens. Each day he taunts me, mocks me anew, finds some new way to humiliate me, and I can only glare at him through the foggy lenses, pull against the rings fixing my hands to my waist, scream into the gag as he laughs, as the keys to freedom jingle within reach of my useless paws.
theartofmadeline
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turnnoffyourmind
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