Camp

• Samuel Bailey, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

Every morning the bells ring enticing my brain to make my body acknowledge. A stimulation foreign to those most experienced, yet all too familiar to anyone who has stepped foot inside these fences.
It is now 06:01.
I am late! I hurriedly jump to feet, knowing I must work at a frantic pace to befriend time once more. Today, of all days, was not the day to be late.
I hear the roll beginning to be called.
“Ahern. Armstrong.”
Every name drawing the slightest drip from my brow.
“Askins.”
I recite the plan in my mind. I break it down to the littlest of details, even how baggy the guard’s pants are.
“Atkinson.”
I know now that at any moment the door will fly open, stimulating any senses of what I once knew to be freedom. The nerves begin to draw sweat more fluently. The dreams of being in an exultant state at this time, is not the case.
It is now 06:04.
They are late! I am approached, my name is called. I answer with, “What of it?” returned by the back of a hand. A familiar feeling that settles my nerves and makes me contemplate of how this place has broken me, from a man of pride to someone’s nail file.
The door flies open knocking the guard to the ground, creating belief that today is my day. What a mistake. My counterparts and I take off out the door and into the open. We bolt for the gate in the early hours of the morning with the guards yet to take station. Combined to four by two metres in conjunction with a minimalist vegan diet for the past three months makes my legs as weary as a marathon runners in the forty-second kilometre. Sprinting, panting, dreaming. Running, with the sun rising in the distances, the wind passing through my hair, the sound of the alarm.
I freeze with a sick feeling in my stomach. The sound of the alarm! What an error I have made in leaving the guard behind, his actions once we left him infiltrate my thoughts. Pictures of him pulling the alarm to notify every guard on the grounds entwine into the roots of my mind. I can hear noises, rustling and footsteps behind me. I turn to the sound of gun fire only to be met by my freedom, not how I have desired it but freedom none the less.