- Books, Literature, and Writing
The Red Brick Prison. Chapter III
Walking along that high street, she gazed passively at the shop windows, like a scene from an old cartoon where they use the same backdrop over and over. A Charity shop, bookies, a travel agents and a shop that had closed down and boarded up it's windows. Over and over, occasionally an old pub would infiltrate the sad horizon, adding to the hopelessness of it all.
To her it was like someone telling a melancholy tale; The hope of flying away to somewhere new, the trap that keeps them here, making them destitute and hopeless. Drowning the sorrows of their broken dreams, and then the vultures picking at their remains after they've given up all hope.
This was how she felt most days, that the life she lived was bound in that clichéd tale. She stared into the windows of the travel agents, dreaming of escaping to the bright beautiful places they offered a way out to. But she knew she was trapped here, like the old men placing bets, just trying to win enough to be free. Until all their money is gone, and all they can do is drown themselves in whisky. Drink after drink a smooth and numbing reminder of the dreams they once had.
And that's how her life would end, after working herself away for years trying to earn enough to escape. But without really realising it, spending it on more traps, like a gambler placing bet after bet, telling himself he felt lucky this time. She would buy a house, her very own red brick prison & have a couple of kids, spending money so that they could one day escape. All the while trapping herself further inside, buying more red bricks to build her cage.
And then one day it would end. Her belongings would be taken to those little old ladies who would sell them for fifty pence each. And people would say: "You know she lived in this town her whole life!" As if it was a good thing.
But by then of course, it wouldn't really matter anymore. Would it?