Cage Without a Raven

I entered the visitor’s room with concern. A lobby painted with white and hints of black welcomed me. People sat in the black leather chairs, reading magazines and having conversations with each other. I approached the desk where a tall, brawny man looked down on me. ‘Can I help you?’ He said in a voice full of power. He was dressed like a soldier, tainted in black ink. His hair was slick back and dyed a fiery red. ‘I’d like to visit Damien.’ I said. He was silent as he stood up and walked out from behind the desk, handing me a clipboard with the names of previous visitors. ‘Sign here.’ He said, sternly. I grabbed the pen, signed my name, and we made our way through the gray door.
I walked down the hall. When you entered the prison, you would expect to be surrounded by stone walls and doors with metal bars. I didn’t see that. Instead, it was a smooth white wall and the cell doors were glass. You would think that you’d see people in their 40s, 50s, 30s, even their twenties sit and lie in the cells.

I didn’t see that.

They were teenagers. 15, 16, 17, 18, even as young as 13 years old were all in these cells. The youngest, from what a friend told me, was a 10 year old. All I could do was sigh. The fact that all these teens and preteens are imprisoned here because of a law passed by a corrupt leader brought my blood to a simmer.

I continued forward, following behind the guard that led me in. The faces of these teens grew more youthful the further I walked. They raised their heads to make eye contact with me, some staring daggers at me; others had a twinkle in their eyes and stared out of curiosity. We stopped after a long in front of a cell that was brightly lit. The guard banged on the door, ‘Damien. You have a visitor.’ He growled. He was huddled in a corner of the cell, knees to his chest and his head down. ‘You have 30 minutes.’ The guard said before walking out and slamming the door behind him.

I sat against the wall, staring into the cell in front of me. He was worse than the last time I visited him. His once golden hair was now a faded, nearly white color and grew to the middle of his back.  His milky skin was as pale as the snow that gently fell on the roof of the cell. He got skinnier as well. What did they do to him to get him into this condition? Manacles were still attached to his wrist, like an insane asylum inmate deemed too deadly to release. ‘Do you remember me?’ I said. He raised his head a bit, revealing his eyes. The once vibrant blue eyes that sparked with rebellious plans were now empty and blank. I sighed. The once outspoken raven now stood before me a plucked and clipped bird. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it to seal in any thoughts or words he wanted to say. Was he persecuted? Is he doing it out of fear? I’m not sure. I sighed deeply, ‘What happened to the rebellious spirit I once knew? Ever since you’ve been locked up in here, it’s like that bird had up and left. And it’s been replaced with a dove that’s been plucked of its feathers.’ He understood my metaphors. He always did when no one else would. Not a single word escaped his lips as he simply reminded there, silent as if he was ignoring me. I put my back to the glass door, scanning over the eyes that descended upon me. An outsider had entered their dark confinement. Some were giving me death stares, others were pleading with me once our eyes locked, and a few gave me a disapproving look, telling me that I shouldn’t be here. ‘Look at all these people,’ I started up again. I saw his head lift a bit higher, almost staring at the window that the light poured in from. ‘These are teenagers, like us, that tried speaking up against something that they thought was unjust. And they stick preteens and teenagers, ten through eighteen years old into these cells because they were speaking up about it. I didn’t think it was fair, and neither did you. Yet, here you are. Sitting here no longer a raven, but a plucked bird.’ I walked across the aisle, turned my back to the wall, and sat down on the floor. ‘Where did that raven go? Did it fly away? Did it leave me? Or was it with me all along? I’m not seeing your raven, Damien. Can you find it for me?’ I said, seeing if he was going to tap into that rebellious side of his.

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

It was as if he was just a hollow shell. A puppet with his own thoughts and feelings, but he didn’t move. No one to pull the strings. I remained silent for a minute, and then spoke up, ‘Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m going to get you all out of here. We’re going to do this together, or we’re gonna die trying.’ A loud banging sound came from the door. It opened suddenly, ‘Ms. Walker. We’re going to have to ask you to leave. Visiting hours are over.’ ‘I’ll be there.’ I called, standing to my feet. Two guards came to me and held out their hands in a friendly manner and lead me out. I glanced back at Damien as he crawled back into the shadows that once hid him. Not even acknowledging my existence, a hollow shell, and a friend I can’t find. A hollow shell that was my friend. It gave me the motivation to wear this pick that I had found and the mentorship that Forseti had gave me. Seeing these teens in frail condition and seeing them lose all hope, and endure brutality beyond measure. Like the slightest thing could tip them off. You brush up against them, they’d be quick to sink their nails into your throat and tear out your jugular vein. They’d be so quick to punch you in the stomach, scratch you across the eye, and kick you in the shin. All I could do was sigh and wonder, where did the raven of rebellion go? It just flew away the instant he was imprisoned. It left its eggs, its nest, it left everything.

Mr. Campbell always wondered why I felt so angry towards the President. It’s because he did things like this. And they expect me to sit by and let him do his thing. That’s not the case here. I’m trying to be myself. A music lover and outspoken and I can’t do that when something that bonded so many of my good friends together has been silenced. No matter what we did or what we tried to do, we got shot down causing some teenagers to abandon what they loved because they were too scared to talk about the music they loved getting taken away and how it’s taking away our freedom of expression. Some burned their band shirts; others destroyed their CDs and Vinyls. Some even torn up their posters because they lost hope. Not me. I found this pick out my own will, but once Forseti found me he told me to have it to play the chords of rebellion.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.