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.

***

I shook awake, rolled out of bed quickly, and clattered through the mess of tins and bottles to the bathroom next door. Sticking my face into the toilet bowl just in time I vomited repeatedly for several minutes, followed by a short period of dry heaves. I jammed my finger down my throat, trying to gouge out any excess. Pausing to make sure I'd cleared my stomach, I wiped a towel across my chin, catching a fleeting glimpse of my jaundice skin in the mirror reflection. I stumbled hastily back through to the bedroom. Shaking furiously, I reached for a three-quarters full bottle of white wine I'd left in preparation on the bedside table, and aimed the nozzle into a dirty, smudged glass that was first to hand. Wine spurted in several directions as I struggled to maintain the flow into the glass. Eventually it began to spill over the rim and I slurped gratefully at the edge, wincing at the initial taste. Swallowing little amounts at first to go easy on my tender stomach, I persevered over the course of ten minutes to get through the first couple of glasses, to lessen the shakes.

***

I remain there for centuries; a thousand years. The container becomes my vessel, and in turn I grow to be a part of it. My body evolves to suit its surroundings. Skin grows over my unused, redundant eyes, and eventually over my mouth. My mind reaches a peak of exhaustion after endless cycles of continual terror, panic and guilt, and assumes a level of static frequency. Pulses vibrate through my consciousness, vast rhythmic stretches of shape punctuated by flickering images of a life I had many hundreds of years ago. I see fragments of people, family, friends and children, and sometimes I even see myself for split seconds, standing outside the container, running my hands over its wooden surface. But I am an old man at these times, and I know I belong in there. I keep telling myself that.

***

In the autumn, two months out, I went down to a field just outside of town to watch them burn the containers. It was raining heavily and it took a long time to set them all alight. Several officers were there, and there were other container people too; I recognised them from the court and from the rooms afterwards. But I didn't talk to anyone. My hands were still as I lit a cigarette, huddled under my umbrella and watched the flames lick the night sky.