for Jibb Relmond
(May 29, 1984-January 16, 2009)
Death. That is the only way out.
As I stare at the walls of my confinement day and night, I realize that only
death will really free me. Day and night I would stop, sit still, and stare; then
stop, and sit still, and stare again at the walls, and then I would look out as
far as my vision permits and would longingly wish to touch the banana leaves which
I can see right outside my room. When I first came in, the walls had been
purely white; now, there are yellowish patches on every corner, proof that it
has been a very long while since I was able to venture outside. Well really,
when was the last time I saw the cornfields outside? My, I couldn’t even
remember the year, but perhaps it has been 3 or 4 years ago since my parents
decided to place me in this cell. But I remember that first day clearly. It was
typically hot, and I was brought in through a hired taxi from the city to our
province- right before our house’s gate. During the ride which lasted for 3
hours more or less, I can’t remember much what, or how I felt, except being
relieved that I am finally going home. That was when I got out of a rehab
facility. Right after I was released, a family consensus has been agreed that I
should be put in a cell: alone, with a big lock right outside the grills which
was especially installed right behind my door. It is supposedly for my safety
and well-being. Well, who would trust a young 21-year old like me (who makes
decisions like a 15-year old), to be on the streets again after 6 months of
drug rehabilitation? Even I, myself, do not trust my own will any more. I know
I badly need help and everyone from my family and friends couldn’t have been
much helpful. They had sacrificed a lot; my mother especially, has spent
countless hours talking and begging me to change. They already sent me to the
psychiatrist; they had held prayer vigils, and long hours of watching me while
I lay sleeping just to ensure that I don’t go out into the night where
temptations are lurking. Sending me to a rehabilitation program has been their
last hope; only to be agonized yet again, from an unsuccessful outcome. Thus,
my day would start by staring at the white walls, until midday. After lunch, I
would again stare at the other corner of my room, and wait for any intervention
which would hopefully break the monotony of my endless hours.
