John Animus

      Tap, tap, tap”, John stirred and opened his eyes. Through the window, he could see the knocker-upper heading down the dimly lit street to wake his neighbors. He washed his face in the sink, shaved, and started a pot of tea. By sunrise, he was looking dapper in his worn-out suit, and he headed out the door. It was a short walk to the train station. The town was just waking up and returning to its usual busyness. Steamboats lazily moved up the river, salesmen opened their shops, preparing for a good day’s work, and children rushed through the narrow streets. A cloud of black smoke marked the train station’s location, and a loud whistle announced the steam engine’s nearing departure. John had walked this route nearly every day for the past 20 years. He hastened up the stairs, boarded, and slid into an open seat. The train whooshed by the old brick houses of the town out into the open countryside. Fields and dirt roads stretched as far as the eye could see. John’s eyes grew heavy. The regular clickety-clack of the train speeding along the tracks had a way of making him tired. “Ticket, please”, a voice demanded. “Ah, Mr. Soma, good morning to you, Sir”. “Good morning,” John showed the conductor his ticket. Sliding the porte-monnaie back into his bag, he peered out the window. They were just passing the prison yard. A few men in horizontally striped jumpsuits were busy playing some game with a ball. Others were engaged in their morning PT while several inmates stood together closely in small groups as if they were grade schoolers comparing the lunches they had brought along. “Those poor souls,” John thought to himself. “What terrible turn must their life have taken to have them end up in such a wretched place. I am delighted at the thought of not being kept behind bars myself.” The train sped past the yard and its watch towers as the Block rolled into sight. Grey and dull, it lay there in the countryside. “I wonder how many cells are in there. How many prisoners have forgotten life outside that barbed wire fence? The train rolled on and approached the city.

      “46085, breakfast!” the sliding panel slammed shut. “Animus,” the inmate mumbled. “My name is John Animus. I am not a number.” He didn’t touch the food. He sat curled with his knees to his chin in the middle of his cell. The walls around him were covered in markings that were vaguely shaped as words. Lost was one of the words. He had scraped that one in with his lunchtime fork. Fear was right below it. It was in red chalk. He had traded away a dry muffin to get that red chalk. The opposite wall read Dread. He could not remember when he wrote that one. It had certainly been a while ago. Towards the top of the Fear wall was a small window facing east. The sun shined straight through that window every morning, lighting up the bleak cell for a few hours every day. The rays reflected off the dust floating in the room, creating a beam of light. Every morning, John covered his face. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark. After spending so much time in the shadows, the light was too vibrant and harsh to look at. He could feel the warmth on his back, though. It was the one thing he enjoyed.

      The train ride usually lasted a little under an hour. John deboarded and walked the remaining commute on foot. He passed the bakery and the homeless man, the park and the old woman walking her dog, and the man handing out pocket bibles. Finally, he arrived at the big wooden gate of an oversized brick building. Pulling it open, a gust of stale, warm air and an overwhelming stench of oil, iron, and coal filled his nose. “Building trains”, he thought to himself. “I have to build the object so I can sit in said object and let it take me to the place I can build it.” The irony was not lost on him. He stepped in. The heavy door closed behind him. His 14-hour shift had just begun. It was not until the sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving an artwork of red paint behind, that John finally clocked out. As a supervisor, he was not required to work any heavy machinery or labor in the grease and dirt, but his shoulders still sagged. The fresh air and evening sky provided some much-needed revitalization as he headed back to the station. Again, he passed the man handing out bibles, telling people that Jesus loved them. He nodded to the old woman walking her bull terrier in the park. He glanced at the homeless man begging for food and smelled the delicacies that were being sold at the bakery. He stepped onto the train, and with a roar of the powerful engine, it sped out of the city. His mind started to wander. “Is this all there is to life? Wake, work, eat, sleep? What a miserable existence this was. What difference did I make today?” The empty seat beside him was occupied by a newspaper from the week before. He grabbed it and started reading.

      John Animus was still sitting in the same position as before on the cold prison floor. His face, however, was no longer buried in his knees. Instead, his eyes were fixated on the four walls surrounding him. He stared intently at the markings he had made. Lost, Fear, Dread. His mind started wandering. Why did he write down those specific words? This was the first time he had gazed upon them since they had been there. This was …this was the first time he had ever asked himself that question.

      John Soma arrived home late, as usual. After a quick and simple dinner, he prepared for bed. At night, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts from the train ride returned. What was he doing? Where was he going? He felt lost, in dire need of directions. Was he supposed to be searching for something? Could it be that fear was holding him back? He grew more and more restless as he continued thinking. Desperate for distraction, he reached for the paper he had found on the train. He flipped through a few pages in candlelight but then sat silently. These thoughts were not something he wanted to run away from any longer. Escape was not the solution. He laid the paper back on his nightstand and extinguished the candle. He relived the past day in his mind and felt the dread of having to return to the factory early the next day. It sat heavy in his stomach. Something had to change.

      The following morning, the sun rose. John Animus felt its rays creep along his back. What a stark contrast they presented to the cold concrete floors. He was still seated in the middle of the cell. But then, as if placed on a swivel, John turned around slowly. The warmth moved from his back, around his shoulder, and finally to his hands that were covering his face. At first, he hesitated, but then he lowered them. His eyes were pressed shut. He took a deep breath and opened them to see the light. It was bright, almost blinding. He had to squint. He now felt the warmth on his face and saw how the grey walls came to life and how the dust danced in the sunbeam. There was more. There was a life outside of these confines!

      In the distance, he could hear the train driving by. He could almost feel the clickety-clack as it sped along the tracks.