I Lie Face Up

    His blistering, cracked hands struck out at the coarse, unyielding layer of wood resting inches above his head. Again and again they relentlessly pounded, in fear and desperation, against the ceiling of his dark prison. Mustering his last ounce of strength, he feebly clawed and scraped his splintered fingers along each crack, corner, and imperfection in its surface. His hands withdrew in defeat to his sides and he was once again overcome by a pervading sense of futility and panic. He was too weak now. He'd given up his initial assault too early. He hadn't tried hard enough; he'd been oblivious to the gravity of his situation and had struggled only half-heartedly to escape. And now it was too late.
    He struggled to recall the details of how he'd gotten there. How long had he been there for that matter? His mind fumbled in a haze to recount the lurid events of the recent past but could only vaguely recollect memories of his earlier struggle, what seemed like centuries ago. He guessed by his dry, scorching thirst and the unrelenting pain gnawing at his belly, that he'd been confined for nearly two days. Perhaps it had been only two hours, perhaps a lifetime; time had lost all meaning for him. His head ached with a dull, numbing pain and he struggled now to focus on a single thought for more than a few seconds. He wanted very badly to sleep. He needed very badly to sleep, in fact. He was so vexed by trepidation and discomfort that in drifting in and out of consciousness he'd found very little rest; his brief periods of slumber only contributed to the fog that was slowly descending on his waking mind.
    His thoughts turned to a single image from his childhood: a winged silhouette perched atop a small, tattered garage, eyes gleaming with excitement and expectancy, filled with inextinguishable hope and innocence. In a single courageous motion, the figure leaped from its garage-top perch.
    He'd spent months constructing the wings. Each day he would race home from school, rush to his basement laboratory, and set to work. Consumed by dreams of flight, he labored over the wings, taking painstaking care in the placement of each construction-paper feather. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect...
    Unable to sustain its focus on this image, his mind turned again to sleep. He knew he must stay awake. He strained to keep his eyes open, relying only on his intuition; he regarded solemnly that he could no longer distinguish his slumber from the blackness of his prison. He was so tired. But he must stay awake. He was very cold. It seemed to him that he had always been cold. He struggled to imagine the sensation of warmth, but found it hopelessly alien to him. The fog enshrouding his mind had become very dense. Unable to focus on his previous thoughts, he surrendered, unaware, to sleep. In his slumber, he dreamt, once again, of the garage-top Icarus.
    He stared in wonder at the pinioned form, seemingly suspended in mid-air--frozen in dramatic climax at the peak of its jump as if robbed of all inertia. He battled in vain to direct his thoughts elsewhere, or at the very least to fall back asleep, but the image stood etched in his mind like a freeze-frame of some terrible nightmare. He yearned to cry out to the figure, to warn it of its impending defeat. He would have screamed aloud from beyond the walls of slumber, but his dry cracked throat permitted only a soft, grating whisper. Had he been able, he would have implored the figure not to jump, never to jump. He would have told it to hold its secret dreams close to its heart, to abandon the pursuit and the inevitable failure that would come with it. That way no one and nothing could ever touch what it held most dear. He would have told it that dreams weren't meant to be realized, that the magic of possibility was dispelled at the climax of realization. He would have told it that dreams die, and with their death so to would one die. For what was one without dreams? If only the figure wouldn't jump.
    But alas, it was too late. The arched form lay suspended at the apex of possibility, arms spread wide, without doubt. The outcome was certain; this child--for certainly the figure must be a child--would plummet to the earth and suffer a crushing defeat. If only he could have done something...But like the winged child, he too lay inert and powerless. It seemed he had known nothing else in his lifetime. He observed something else in the child that it seemed he hadn't known in his lifetime: he saw burning in its eyes the flames of desire. He was entranced. In the motionless eyes the flames danced and swirled, burning with such an intensity that it seemed it would entirely engulf the eyes, leaving nothing but smoldering cinders in the stationary eye-sockets. He saw reflected in the flames his own eyes, tiny and black, like lifeless lumps of coal. And still the child's motionless form hung suspended and hopeful. Shivering in the darkness and chill of his tiny world, a shudder ascended from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck.
    He awoke from the dream with a start, gasping for breath. In the midst of his haze he was granted a brief moment of clarity. He reflected on the lurid dream--he considered gravely the child's motionless form, forever fixed at the peak of its dream's fruition. He too was rendered inert by this thought, the limitless possibility of the child's stasis. His body convulsed with a sudden shock as he broke into tears. He coudn't discern just why he was crying. Was it his heart breaking at the beauty and grace of the frozen image? Was it envy for the child's unperturbed innocence? Was it mourning for his own forgotten dreams? Or was it the horror that came in his realization that suspended on the verge of liberation, the child would never reach its dream's fulfillment? The fog again passed over his mind, but still, he cried. As the last tear streamed down his water-logged cheeks, overcome with weakness, he fell, once again, into a restless slumber and dreamt.
    He was falling; he knew this by sensation alone. With trepidation, he slowly opened his eyes to find the earth rushing toward him, bearing the hollow promise of defeat--a promise that had come to fruition many times in his life. The gravity of thought and situation submerged him deeper into reverie. Faster and faster he plummeted, the rising images melting into shapeless form--and form disintegrating into abscence, leaving only a clear image of what no longer was. As he fell, he forgot everything he had ever known. There was only this, the fall--the realization--now. For a brief second he knew clarity--and with that clarity came a sense of exhilaration and fulfillment unlike anything he had ever known. Shortly thereafter, he came to know the ground.
    He awoke with a violent convulsion, his mind momentarily clear of the suffocating haze. The dream had stirred something in him that had lain slumbering and forgotten. He cursed himself for his earlier weakness and lack of conviction. Only now, the severity of his situation finally impacted upon him. The possibility that he may not escape became very real and frightening. At the same time, however, this made the possiblity of escape--as well as the desire to do so--equally real. He was very weak with thirst and hunger. And he was very cold. It seemed his limbs would not respond to his brain's commands. With a shudder, he tensed every muscle in his body, feebly drawing his atrophied arm to his grimacing visage. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he truly had the will to carry out his grim plan. And then, with a deliberate jerk, he sank his teeth deep into his palsied wrist. The warm blood flowed quickly and smoothly down his raw, parched throat, bringing a sweet respite from his asphyxiating thirst. Strengthened from the draught, he quickly drew his other arm to his expecting mouth and performed the dark ritual once again.
    With all the strength he could muster, he pounded at the coarse layer of wood with the entire fury of his being. He struck it again and again, with unrelenting fervor. He could feel the blood trickling in tiny streams down his bare arms, and still, he ceaselessly hammered against the walls of his prison. With each blow, his fists lost sensation, until finally he could no longer feel his pounding fists or the walls they pounded against. A fire erupted in his chest and slowly spread through his entire body. And still he pounded, oblivious to the action, simply lost in the motion of inertia. The warmth, slowly creeping throughout his body, had now reached his toes and fingertips. His pounding became less regular, and, enveloped in the wonderful blanket of warmth, his arms fell slowly to his sides. Everything was perfect. He could finally sleep.

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