The Container
I hear a click as the container snaps shut. In the darkness I make my first slow attempts at movement, but immediately ascertain there is no room. The wooden contours of the container wrap around the shape of my body perfectly. I can feel the smooth interior pressed against my right cheek as I am, positioned on my side. This mask spreads round the shape of my skull. Twin line indentations, where the top and bottom parts of the container come together, are pressed against the tip of my nose. The centre of my lips are caressed with air from the tiny breathing hole. From my head it continues down my neck to hold my torso, arms and legs perfectly in place. My fingers are spread wide, each placed into individual segments. I can feel the sweat beginning to form instantaneously within these little finger tombs.
For a few minutes after it closes I hear murmuring outside, followed by the dull thud of receding footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Travelling through the wood to my ears pressed against the inside, I start to hear moans filtering in from the other containers. Incessant scratching fills the air. I squeeze my eyes together furiously, trying to combat the spreading panic in my system. I am soon scratching too, my nails scraping frantically at the ends of their individual cells, tears flooding down my cheeks. My own moans escape through the airhole to join the chorus of the others.
Stephen Thom, 29, is a literary artist from Edinburgh, Scotland, originally from Carrbridge in the Highlands. Writing was an old hobby of his that he recently started to indulge in again. He is also a musician in an Alt Folk band named Dante
Stephen Thom