Disclaimer: The usual, I don't own the prison mentioned, blah blah blah.
But you know what? Except for the word "azkaban", nothing here is really
specific. So I take credit for anything else.
Author's note: This isn't really a story story- more of a poem in prose. Please review, but if you criticize about the lack of plot, then I'm not sorry because you were warned.
Hello stranger. Who are you? Ah, that's a nice name. Me? I don't know- can't remember. Don't look at me that way, boy. You'll be lucky to find anyone here who remembers what they're called. Or rather, were called. No one comes calling anymore. No one comes to- what is it the outsiders call it? Ah yes, "Azkaban." Yep, nobody ever comes. No one, that is, but for the ones who come to stay. 'Tis a big, fancy name, Azkaban. Never thought too much of it myself until I actually came, and there's no way out for me. For any of us. Welcome to the Gardens of Amnesia, lad.
Ease my ears, boy- laugh. Much better, many thanks. Hope you enjoyed it. Won't be laughing again. Ever. It's a sweet, pure sound, laughter. Real laughter at least: so joyful and.free. Well, we get a bit of laughter down here of a different sort, if you can call it that. Not good laughter. You'll know it when it comes. The sound sends shivers down your spine and echoes in the hollow basin of your head. You will want to hide, to flee, to claw out of your own body just so that you will not have to hear it any longer. The resonance of that chaos will try to drown you, but in your gulps for untainted air, you might find that your mouth is already open. And the laugher is you.
Oh, the infernal sound of a lock being bolted. Closed in.forever. Get used to it. There'll be no change in that. But we're bound in by more than locks here.
Don't try thinking happy thoughts of days past, my friend. It'll do you no good. Your dreams and memories vanish like sand in a breeze, but without the simple grandeur. This place will extract your life from you faster than you can say "help." And of course you will. Everyone cries for help in the Gardens of Amnesia. What is it like to be happy anyway? It has been such a long, long time since I have housed a smile on this old face.
In the Gardens of Amnesia, there is no sun. No moon, no stars. No hope. Just cold stone surrounding cold people. Horrible people. People who murdered or worse. The Gardens of Amnesia is only for the worst. Lucky us, lucky us. What was it you did, boy? Say no more- I'll just forget it anyway. You should too. It is a dangerous thing, to dwell in guilt. But you won't be forgetting that, I'm afraid.
Those flowers over there in the corner- those lovely gray ones. Whatever you do, don't sniff them. That's Misery in full bloom. And never sit under that tree, or leaves of Despair shall shower thee. And the vine that clings to the walls of this room- 'tis Remorse. It'll entangle you and never let go. Do you see it, lad? No? Good. Because it's not there. But one can't be sure in the Gardens of Amnesia.
You can be sure of one thing, my child. You have nothing. You think they took your life? You think they took home, job, and family? It's only begun. You still have material possessions and they are hungry with jealousy. Your body is a shell for them to crush. I have seen this face. Its dull, sunken eyes groping for something to cling to, its sallow skin wanting nothing more than a release from this bondage. This face is not mine. It is a monster! It cannot belong to me! They will take your mind and poison it with all the venoms in this Garden and you will trip into a world of chaos!
But the worst, the one thing that should be your own, untouched by the rough hands of the world, is no longer so. They will rip your soul from you. And when they thrust it back in your face, it has been bruised, battered, and raped by the cruel, penetrating rot of this abomination. You can cradle it, nurse it, but it always be broken. We are all broken here! In all possible ways, we are dead without the sweet courtesy or an end!
And what can be done of it? Nothing. I am powerless. You are powerless. The Gardens of Amnesia have mercy for no one. The most painful flowers you will ever see. And in the end, it's the painful perfection of it all that will get you. Ironic, really, the effectiveness of it all. Almost, comical, now that I think of it. I have no amnesty left but to give you this warning:
Cover your ears, boy. I'm going to laugh.
Author's note: This isn't really a story story- more of a poem in prose. Please review, but if you criticize about the lack of plot, then I'm not sorry because you were warned.
Hello stranger. Who are you? Ah, that's a nice name. Me? I don't know- can't remember. Don't look at me that way, boy. You'll be lucky to find anyone here who remembers what they're called. Or rather, were called. No one comes calling anymore. No one comes to- what is it the outsiders call it? Ah yes, "Azkaban." Yep, nobody ever comes. No one, that is, but for the ones who come to stay. 'Tis a big, fancy name, Azkaban. Never thought too much of it myself until I actually came, and there's no way out for me. For any of us. Welcome to the Gardens of Amnesia, lad.
Ease my ears, boy- laugh. Much better, many thanks. Hope you enjoyed it. Won't be laughing again. Ever. It's a sweet, pure sound, laughter. Real laughter at least: so joyful and.free. Well, we get a bit of laughter down here of a different sort, if you can call it that. Not good laughter. You'll know it when it comes. The sound sends shivers down your spine and echoes in the hollow basin of your head. You will want to hide, to flee, to claw out of your own body just so that you will not have to hear it any longer. The resonance of that chaos will try to drown you, but in your gulps for untainted air, you might find that your mouth is already open. And the laugher is you.
Oh, the infernal sound of a lock being bolted. Closed in.forever. Get used to it. There'll be no change in that. But we're bound in by more than locks here.
Don't try thinking happy thoughts of days past, my friend. It'll do you no good. Your dreams and memories vanish like sand in a breeze, but without the simple grandeur. This place will extract your life from you faster than you can say "help." And of course you will. Everyone cries for help in the Gardens of Amnesia. What is it like to be happy anyway? It has been such a long, long time since I have housed a smile on this old face.
In the Gardens of Amnesia, there is no sun. No moon, no stars. No hope. Just cold stone surrounding cold people. Horrible people. People who murdered or worse. The Gardens of Amnesia is only for the worst. Lucky us, lucky us. What was it you did, boy? Say no more- I'll just forget it anyway. You should too. It is a dangerous thing, to dwell in guilt. But you won't be forgetting that, I'm afraid.
Those flowers over there in the corner- those lovely gray ones. Whatever you do, don't sniff them. That's Misery in full bloom. And never sit under that tree, or leaves of Despair shall shower thee. And the vine that clings to the walls of this room- 'tis Remorse. It'll entangle you and never let go. Do you see it, lad? No? Good. Because it's not there. But one can't be sure in the Gardens of Amnesia.
You can be sure of one thing, my child. You have nothing. You think they took your life? You think they took home, job, and family? It's only begun. You still have material possessions and they are hungry with jealousy. Your body is a shell for them to crush. I have seen this face. Its dull, sunken eyes groping for something to cling to, its sallow skin wanting nothing more than a release from this bondage. This face is not mine. It is a monster! It cannot belong to me! They will take your mind and poison it with all the venoms in this Garden and you will trip into a world of chaos!
But the worst, the one thing that should be your own, untouched by the rough hands of the world, is no longer so. They will rip your soul from you. And when they thrust it back in your face, it has been bruised, battered, and raped by the cruel, penetrating rot of this abomination. You can cradle it, nurse it, but it always be broken. We are all broken here! In all possible ways, we are dead without the sweet courtesy or an end!
And what can be done of it? Nothing. I am powerless. You are powerless. The Gardens of Amnesia have mercy for no one. The most painful flowers you will ever see. And in the end, it's the painful perfection of it all that will get you. Ironic, really, the effectiveness of it all. Almost, comical, now that I think of it. I have no amnesty left but to give you this warning:
Cover your ears, boy. I'm going to laugh.