Sorry – Melina Bunting

This erasure poem was crafted using a snippet from Mary Poppins by P.L. Travers. The words are not entirely my own, but I did write the erasures.

A digital screen built into the wall counts time. Its beep serves as a constant reminder of how long I have been here. By here, I mean my prison. Four walls, a roof, two fluorescent lights, a mattress in the corner, a stack of books to stop the insanity, and a bucket to shit in.

I follow a daily routine to keep the voices away. Voices that tell me to give up or give in to the helplessness. 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 laps of the room at a brisk pace, three hours of reading, rinse and repeat until the lights turn off for the night. I time everything with the counter on the wall. I am given one meal a day of lentils and rice with a large cup of water. Not enough to get my strength up, but enough to sustain me. When I lay on the mattress trying to get to sleep, I can hear the sound of cars in the distance. Very softly, but they are there. I count them at first and see what number I can get up to without losing my place. I picture myself in one of those cars, driving into the sunset and disappearing from this place.

At least I have something to do. Beep. Beep.

Sometimes my captors visit me and tie me to a chair. Their faces obscured by balaclavas. They take turns in bringing a small knife and a butane torch, you know, the ones you use to brown the sugar on a crème brûlée. I would do anything to be able to eat a crème brûlée. To crack the hard-sugary top, to taste the rich custard on my tongue. The pain always breaks into my escapist thoughts. The knife slicing my skin. They scream at me.

I sometimes picture them as an artist, painting their masterpiece with the blood from my cuts. They let the blood creep over my skin to form patterns, and I try to guess the shapes like Pictionary to take my mind away from the pain. When I think I can’t take any more, the yelling stops, and the torch comes out. The fucked-up thing about it is that I now get excited when this happens, because I know the torture is almost over for the day. They burn me a couple of times, and the smell of my own hair and burning flesh often makes me puke. They then clean me up, dress my wounds, and leave me alone until the next time.

It is two different people that come, but only one at a time. They alternate turns inflicting mutilations on me. I swear sometimes I hear laughing, or is that crying?

At least I have something to do. Beep. Beep.

I don’t get books anymore. The bucket often overflows, and food and water are only given to me a few times a week. My body is emaciated. I can’t seem to gather the energy to exercise anymore. In the night-time … well, what I think is the night-time as I don’t have any windows, there is a sliver of light that comes in from under the door. The light hits the imperfections on the concrete roof and elongates the shadows. I pretend that they are stars in the deep purple void, moving freely around the universe. Shooting from one side to the other and only burning out after a million years.

They don’t bring toilet paper anymore, and I’ve had to resort to using the paper from the books to wipe my ass. In death—no! Even in the grave, all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Wipe and in the bucket. Thanks, Poe.

My captors have started to cut things off now. I have very few fingers left on my right hand, and only the big and little toe on my left foot remains. I practice meditation as often as I can now, as I can feel my mind slipping. I often catch myself having a conversation with … well, myself. The meditation also helps to shake the phantom pains from the remaining phalanges.

At least I have something to do. Beep. Beep.

My skin stretches across my bones, which now protrude so much that they form mountains. The muscle atrophy makes every movement a marathon of hurt. My captors have put mirrors all over the walls and roof, and everywhere I look, I see my wasted self. My abdomen is bloated. My skin cracks and bleeds. I can barely move around the room now, but everywhere I look, a thing stares back. Sunken eye sockets, knotted hair, and a twisted beard with food and vomit mixed in.

My mind refuses to focus, and all I can do is lie here in pain. Some of my limbs are stunted from the amputations performed on me. My brain silently screams constantly. I can never tell if I am awake or asleep as my dreams consist of exactly what I do when I am awake. The ambient dread in the pit of my stomach spreads like cancer washing over me. I bang my head on the floor sometimes to make sure I am still alive.

I just want to die. Why won’t they let me die? Beep. Beep .

Both of my captors come into the room, and for the first time, they take off their masks. It is a woman and a man, and they are both crying, a darkness sits behind their eyes. They sit me in the seat of torture. They stick a photo of a young boy up on the mirror and ask me who it is. I don’t recognise him, but after all, all I know is this room. There was nothing before, there is nothing after. Their faces become solemn. They explain to me that it is their son and he went missing on his fourth birthday. The pain in my body swells, and I cry out in pain.

They show me a photo of a man holding a boy in the driveway of a house. A ripple of déjà vu spreads through my body, setting off the phantom pains as the hair on my remaining limbs stands on end.

I am the man in the picture. The counter stops at four years.

The last thing I remember is the mother walking up to me, a knife in her hand, and a whisper in my ear.\

‘The police couldn’t find you, but we did.

You will never again hurt anyone.

You will never do this again.

You end here.’

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