s.o.c. 9

They backlit you in cobalt blue after they clad you in a pale prison uniform, the lens as static and stable as your state. The colors clash, your muddled costume a mirror of your mind.

There are no effects except for your black suit jacket (for a funeral or a wedding?), white button-up shirt, and loose tie (why wear a tie meant to be tightened like a noose like a scarf? Are you covering yourself from the cold outside or the cold within?).

Ahead of you, deep darkness.

Behind you, the bright block of cells.

The soft illumination exposes your sutures, a gentle humiliation as you pour the tarnished ring out of the envelope and onto your open palm.

And then, a cast shadow, your body concealing the clouds. Barbed wire closes in, confines, and convicts you, though you've left the jailhouse.

But no longer are you led by the interrogators saying you're guilty until proven innocent, by the baton-wielding bloodhounds on your heels that accompanied you to the counter with your clothes in a bin, by the lens luring you through the halls.

Now, you track forward.