PITYING THE PRISONER | p.jm

f o u r - j i m i n

Hours. For hours I've been stuck in this cell, for hours I've been taking it all in. Each individual crack in the cinderblock walls, the walls that have been stained with age and— though I'd rather not think about it— the blood of this cell's previous inhabitants. The door on the left of the wall opposite me is dented in a few places and made of stainless steel. Scratches are visible on its surface. To the right of the door, the one-way mirror looms ominously. If I focus really hard, I can see things right on the other side of the glass, but there's hardly anything that ever passes by. For the most part, all I can see in it is my own reflection, which is torturous enough. Being able to see myself, I realize, is just going to aid in my descent into complete madness.

The concept of this madness, admittedly, is both terrifying and compelling. I mean, I don't want to go crazy, but it could turn out to be a better option than sanity. In the end, though, it boils down to one particular question. Would I rather be completely delusional at the time when I'm eventually killed, be totally unaware, lost within the recesses of my own mind? Or would I rather be sane, be aware of the imminence of my demise and have to accept it? I'd like to imagine myself holding my head up high, looking my executioner in the eyes and saying something intimidating or witty before they pull the trigger, but I know that such actions from me are very unlikely. I'll probably cry, beg for my life, make a fool of myself. The guy behind the gun would probably just scoff and fire, then mutter "typical" under his breath before grabbing some lunch. It's not like I'd have a reason to be ashamed of acting that way, anyone would, but these guys see it every day. I have to set myself apart, I have to make them remember me. Someone has to.

I begin to develop a persona in my mind. A James Bond-esque character, someone fearless and determined, with the quick-thinking skills of MacGyver and the strength and charisma of a super hero. I have to build myself up, toughen up my mind and stay strong so I can be the person that's in my head when I'm killed. To be another Park Jimin, one who's not afraid of dying, one who smiles in the face of death and keeps his head high even in his lowest moments. I form a character and allow myself to embody it. I mask my own cowardice with the strength of someone else. I'm going to be that stronger person. Let them do what they want to me, let them try to break me, but I'm going to fight them with everything I have. I've got to.

The door opens with a click and a creak as it swings on its hinges. A man in his twenties enters, carrying a tray.

"Eat," he says, setting the tray down in front of me. "I'll be back in half an hour to pick that up."

"Thank you," I say to him. "I'll eat it well." He scoffs and leaves the room. I pick up the tray and set it on my lap.

It could be drugged, I think. But I'm hungry, and starving to death is not the way to go. I eat the soup and rice, surprised by how good it tastes. They treat the prisoners well here, I suppose.

Half an hour passes and the man returns. I hand the tray to him and thank him again, but he says nothing. I didn't really expect him to say much, so it doesn't bother me.

I'm left to my thoughts again once he leaves, and though that's good, I'm still a bit uneasy about whether or not my food was drugged. Whatever, it doesn't really matter. I'd rather eat drugged food than die of starvation, so I eat.

Time passes. I don't know how much, but eventually I see a flicker of movement on the other side of the mirror. I focus on it very carefully, and soon through my own reflection I can see someone on the other side. The face appears to be female, and I can see that she's wearing a white shirt. That's about all I can make out, though. I don't know what compels me to do it, but I smile at her. Shortly after, she vanishes behind the glass again, leaving me with only my reflection to keep me company. I look back at the ground, studying myself. I reach into the empty pockets of my pants, then withdraw them and play with the seams of my sweater. I need something to keep me busy.