The Price of Freedom

The Price of Freedom

For what seemed like the millionth time, I tried to get comfortable. I tried to shift slightly, but again,

as before, unseen others crowded me; their close proximity preventing any movement and fuelling

my claustrophobia. I guess the darkness was my greatest fear, its blanket of gloom at first merely

depressing me, but as time progressed it began to gnaw at me like an anorexic rat. I briefly

wondered if the others around me felt the same, but my companions remained mute.

The oppressive silence was maddening. I could hear some sounds, but they were muted, much like

my companions. I could not make out anything clearly – only muffled noises. From whom or what, I

could not tell. I sensed something else…something a part of me, yet totally alien – I sensed its

menace and shivered. What was this place? How did I get into this predicament? For the life of me, I

could not recall how I got here, or where ‘here’ was. I knew I had to get out - but out of what?

To pass the time, I tried recalling my childhood...

*

I never remembered my parents. I sensed that I was born – but Mum and Dad – no; I don’t recall

them. But I do remember other aspects of my childhood; the pungent smell of pine, the almost eerie

silence of the forest, the fragrant scent of myriad flowers with their insect helpers spreading their

life to other places, a sense of purpose, a sense of community. I remembered feeling very much

alive, in tune with nature and all of her creatures. I was a part of something big, something

important.

But that changed.

2

I recalled a cacophony of shrieks and indescribable pain which made me feel as if my whole being

was whittled down to my very soul. I became somebody very different that day. To what, ...

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...welcoming light, no warmth, only darkness and a morbid

feeling of finality.

This was it.

‘Hubert, I say, have you a light?

‘Remember, Montgomery, I gave up, you’ve got my matches.’

‘So I have, so I have.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the matchbox that Stanford

had given him and opened it. Ah, I think there’s one left!

I was rudely grasped, hauled bodily from my cell and flung with incredible force against the wall.

My head exploded into exquisite agony, of a magnitude I have never experienced before. Yet, I am

content – it is my price for freedom.

***

8

James Montgomery eventually moved into the Twentieth Century. His beloved Meerschaum pipe

was now to be lit via the latest Bic cigarette lighter. So reliable. But his real reason was that matches

were just so impractical. Only good for one thing – one shot, one chance. How antiquated.