We have reached a verdict, your honour.
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King, despite what some might think, actually speaks to me a lot. Of course, he never actually talks to me, oh no, his highness would never intentionally stoop so low as to speak to a peasant, a slave, a horse like me. But he speaks nonetheless. He thinks he's blocked me out. He thinks that I can't hear him-which I can't anymore, for the most part- but his walls… those flimsy, easily shattered walls…I can slip through them.
When I slip through those walls, it's almost as if I've left my own self behind. In an instant my eyes open behind his. I can see, feel, and hear everything. I can feel the texture of the desk beneath his palm. The warmth of sunlight shining on his hand heats the blood that flows through him, pumped by the heart in his chest. It's bright out today, hardly any clouds at all and the sky is so very blue. The air is fresh, smelling of spring-though how a season can have a scent I'm not sure. I can still taste the eggs Yuzu cooked for him this morning.
The difference between slipping through his walls like this and breaking them, taking control, is a simple one but one that still manages to make all the difference in the world; it's not real. Control is freedom. Control is feeling alive. This is just a pretty picture. It's an extravagant, beautiful, amazing, glorious piece of art, yes, but at the end of the day it's just a picture and you're just some poor slob who's gonna have to realise sooner or later that reality is always calling even when it has nothing particularly interesting to say to you.
But anyway, as I said, the King speaks to me. It's his subconscious that does it. Those animal thoughts that aren't really thoughts at all, just instinct-something I understand very well, I'm sure you know. If something touches his subconscious it translates straight to me. Like when he's reading a book for example. I imagine I know most of Shakespeare's works as well as the back of my hand at this point. They too are like pictures; they seem so real and for a moment you can almost forget that you're actually dead. Then you wake up.
You know why people like to relate to things? Because it throws them off. Such behaviour almost seems masochistic when put in that sense but to be caught in a picture and suddenly finding it's not as fake as one might think, you develop a nasty habit of actually believing it's real, even if only for a minute. And that's because it is; in your world. And if it's real in your world wouldn't that mean that every other part of the dream could be real too? You see why it's masochistic?
Tch, so, King had some sort of assignment or something from school, had to read this book and do the usual assigned work that went with it. King eats that shit up even if he likes to think he's rebellious or some shit, so it only takes him about a day or two, though, I never bother keeping track of time so it actually could've been anything. It's a prison novel. You might actually know the one I'm talking about. Some poor schmuck gets accused of murder and tossed in the grinder faster than you can say, "well shit, that sucks."
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little masochistic myself, so I listened in on this one. The guy is so damned sure he's innocent, nothing can shake him. But he's a convict now, a bad guy, and the world doesn't want things so grey. The world wants things black and white, like me and the King. Grey is too much thinking. Screw that shit, the world says.
He's in there for over two decades. Two decades. King hasn't even lived that long, never mind how long I've been stuck in his damn head. At one point he has proof of his innocence but the warden shuts him out, ignores the screaming, the logic lying out in front of his face, and locks him up in solitary. And suddenly the names get confused in my head and I'm not sure if I'm dreaming this god damned shit anymore.
I am not that guy. I'm in no way a good guy. Innocent is probably one of the last words I'd use to describe myself. I refuse to make an alias. Hell, I refuse to take a name, and I sure as hell don't have a plan, but we are similar I guess.
This is my life; King can play the victim however he wants, I will get out of here. I've got that pretty picture hanging on the wall of my cell to cover up that hole I'm still digging. I'm gonna burst through that damn thing one day and I'm never coming back in here.
Wouldn't it be ironic though if I decided to go Zihuatanejo once I got out?
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I hereby declare the defendant…guilty.
So yes, I'm reading Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption in my English class. It's a good story. Really good. But at the one part where the guards drag Andy away to solitary as he's screaming "It's my life! Don't you understand it's my life?!" I couldn't help but think of Shiro-kun. Doesn't help that Andy's character reminds me of him a little bit or that I've been wanting to get this Prison plot bunny out of my head for months but had no means to, not fully understanding prison systems enough to write about them.