Audiohead I

The Arkansas desert sun seemed to have been exerting all its energy that one day, that one summer day, for the temperature had risen ten degrees above the norm. He sat in his room motionless, simply watching the wall; watching the wall to see if it would move. He was convinced that the wall was going to move. Move and encircle him and the world around him in such a way that escape would be impossibly; not even a thought. It did not move; in fact, it never moved. Not a single inch nor single centimeter, for the wall moving would completely defy the the laws of motion that Isaac Newton had defined.

In an quick, swift motion, he leapt up from his seat and sprinted to the wall that he had been staring at for nearly an hour and pushed it with both of his hands. The wall ceased to move. He kicked the wall with his right leg. The wall ceased to move. The wall was not going to surrender to the likes of him. He started to yell until his lungs gave out and the heat overtook him; eventually, he fell to the ground as a result of his extraneous efforts. He wanted the wall to move; why didn't the wall listen?

No one ever listened.

After twenty minutes of laying on the ground, he sat up and examined his chamber. To the left was the wall, that disobedient wall that refused to listen to him. To his right was his bed, if you could call it that; it was only a metal frame. He liked it though. It listened to him, although it never gave a reply.

It'd be nice to get an answer.

In front of him was a toilet; it was the only source of water that he could get. It came from drainage pipes in the ground so he would always be hydrated. He got plenty of food in his chamber; all the bats and rats he could devour! Some days he would be too tired to scavenge, in which his ward would bring him a bowl of worm stew; that was his favorite. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. On the ceiling of his chamber, way at the very top, was his source of manipulation: his speakerbox.

He dreadfully despised that speakbox of his. It never listened to him. No matter what sounds he wanted it to emit or what music he wanted it to play, it would never listen. It was his soul, for it controlled every action that he ever did. It played music twenty-two hours of the day: one of the hours it wasn't playing, his Father talked to him and told him things. The other hour the speakerbox was silent, at six o'clock in the evening to seven o'clock, he was permitted to play with the other inmates. None of them liked him though, because he always used to cry and get really upset. When that occurred, he was brought in by the supervisor; back to his chamber.

Mozart. Mozart. Mozart. Three times repeated Father, who then proceeded to play Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor. He started to shake; subtly at first, but then violently. His eyes became crooked; his head vibrated with vigor. All of a sudden, he jumped up and started banging on the wall and screaming in an insanely high pitched voice. Every time he inhaled, his bangs grew louder and his voice grew more intense. In fear of disturbing Father, the warden unlocked the cell door and ran in to see him banging on the walls. The warden ordered him to stop, but he would not listen. If no one ever listened to him, why should he bother to listen to any one else?

Eventually, though, he grew annoyed with the warden's pestering and tackled him to the ground, screaming in his ear with intent to make him go deaf. The warden managed to shake him off, but he pursued. The warden ran to the weapons' shelf and took an MP5. He showed no fear towards the firearm and still sprinted towards the warden. In an effort of self-defense, and quite honestly, silencing, the warden smacked him across the face with the MP5 repeatedly until he collapsed to the ground.

The warden placed the gun carefully back to where it belonged and grasped the child's hand, dragging him to his chamber. Once the warden arrived at the chamber, he carelessly threw the child into the cell onto the end post of the metal bed, possibly cracking his head. The warden left the bloody mess unaided and locked the door. His pager bleeped; his shift was over. He left the chamber hall, and the child, alone in the darkness to listen to Father's lullabies.