----------Battlefields can come in all forms. Some are large, some are small; some have many bodies arching back and painting the dreary war-torn landscapes in a sea of red, while others have pipes dripping hopes and dreams to the sounds of desperate screams; and some seem to be places where the wrath of nature tears brick after brick of man's carefully crafted stone masterpieces, while others tend to be nearly vacant cracked terrains where only dust furiously dances to the wind's angered rage.

----------Unlike the other battlefields, this one does not come in a form of physical storms or blood-paved landscapes with long-barreled guns decorating the land. However, this battlefield leaves the same imprint on one's soul, which shivers and quakes in fear of being left behind on a mortared beach, forgotten by the ones who loved him so. Instead of bullets whizzing overhead, this battlefield is created from the written words of a fragile soul, whose fingertips graze their writing utensil before gripping it tightly and gently setting its point on a fresh sheet of paper.

----------After writing silently for hours on end, the pen, which shapes the forced words of a man whose mind rages with anger and despair, slowly falters, clicking and clacking on the wooden pedestal that harbors his thoughts. He had kept those thoughts within him for many years, festering upon aching memories of kids happily playing in the yard while a woman, whose soft smile sent shivers down a weak man's spine, watched them play and encouraged them to let their young imaginations run wild. He wished those memories were not the same, as he had sat with those oh-so-familiar toys, one with a gun strapped over the character's overly exaggerated shoulder blades, while another one's soft smile that was captured by hot pink lipstick made him feel alive. The man wanted to be alive; he wanted to be with her.

----------When he snatched that doll at the age of three, his fingers wrapping around that doll's midsection with the care of a born lover, whose eyes could not yet comprehend the luscious curves of a woman and see the attraction born within her fabricated skin, his purpose was to find out if playing with her would keep him feeling strong. However, as the second day of playing with her happened, when he cupped her with the same care as the day before, the woman rushed towards him, told him how playing with dolls was not who he was, told him it was a problem that he liked the doll, that he cared for a doll, and that his mind was not ready to make this decision yet; age three.

----------At age five he wanted his words to mean something more than that plastic doll meant to him.

----------At age seven those words did nothing. For two years, they fell on close-minded ears, leaving him torn and distant from his peers who shook their heads in disdain.

----------At age eleven, the man whose pen tapped to the music of a bird tweeting outside his classroom's window stirred thoughts of his life without her.

----------At age thirteen, the man finds her again, running through the halls with her luscious curves and bright blue eyes.

----------At age fifteen, on paper that sits at his wooden pedestal, he wrote her a letter.









Dear Anna,


----------I'm sorry that I'm writing this letter to you so late. I remember seeing you run down that hall when I was thirteen. I wanted to talk to you, but you seemed to be running late to your class, so I didn't interfere. I guess I should've, since I haven't seen you since. I got your name from a friend who knew you. When I described you to him, he just smiled and said your name with pride, either that it or was laughter, I’m not sure. I hope he didn't lie, otherwise he'll be… I don't know. I just want to let you know that I…

--------------------think…

------------------------------…you're beautiful.

----------You remind me of a doll that I had when I was three. She was like you, but she was plastic, and definitely not from Barbie. After a few months of having her near, my mother took her and burned her alive. My mother never told me, but I stood horrified at the window, watching my doll’s hot pink lips burn to the sounds of an old record, where it described a world bracing the hellfire.

----------I'm sorry I had to tell you that. My mother is a bit violent when it comes to seeing something she disagrees with. She won't burn you alive if—

----------I'd like to get to know you. How about the café at six?




----------He sent her the letter five days later. After those five days, he gave her another five, and when he saw her again, walking down the halls of his high school, he approached her and asked if she received his letter. She says she did, so he asked, "Well?"

----------He waited patiently, hoping that she'll say yes, but as the irritating sounds of a clock ticking in the distance became stronger and stronger with each breath-taking tick, he knew her answer.

----------"I'll think about it."

----------With a nod, the man gave no notice to her again. All he knew was that the hot coals underneath his feet singed his skin and made his soul cry out for help.

----------And there was no one there to hear him.







----------At age sixteen, he grew lonely. His friends had abandoned him after they heard of his pathetic attempt of trying to gain his doll-like crush. The man quivered at the words that they said to him: "You're a fucking joke." "Who proposes with a pitiful letter like that?" "Do you have fetishes with dolls, faggot?" Even though actions speak louder than words, the man knew that the words hit first, and the actions were the finishers. As those few walked out of his life, he had trouble making friends again. For him, he was seen as a nobody, horribly entrenched in his ways.

----------At age seventeen, he thought his life was over. His mother, now feigning her sanity, had raced into his room after she heard of his poor grades and his curse-war with his peers, which led him to fight against the tallest kid in his class. She picked him up and brought him to his father.

----------That night, he was beaten until he grew purple.

----------Now, at age eighteen, a young adult who is now a man by some people's standards, is sitting at his workstation, still hoping that his words mean something, that his innocence still has some bearing in the world. In his cell, a grey husk where men who never felt insane would become insane, was his bed. On his bed were grey sheets, and near his grey metal door was a grey sink and a grey toilet to match. A mirror lets him see himself deteriorate while the rest of the world watches as they now wonder of his crime. Did he really mean to do what he did?

----------The man by the name of Charlie Wooden knew of his crimes. Of course, to him, it was a breath of fresh air, where he can finally gain peace in a nightmare that left him an angered shell of defeat. He can be still here in this lonely shell and be free from his deviant blood-related captors. Unfortunately that landed him in a secure cell, where another captor, the penitentiary in the cold icy landscape of Hawthorne’s Hill, kept him locked up from the rest of the world. He felt safe in this place. His parents were not around.

----------After several months at Hawthorne’s Hill Penitentiary, Charlie had finally found who he was: a writer. His reasons for writing were unclear, since his mind was captured by the heart of Anna, his lovely doll-like crush. His crush kept him up at nights, thinking of things to say or do that might have possibly changed his situation. However, none came to mind. The only words that he thought of may have spurred him into writing. So, with his words as weapons, he begged the guards for his words to mean something. The guards did not know what he meant, since his begging appeared to be delirious, so they shrugged and kept him under a watchful eye. But they could not ignore the calls any longer, due to his persistence of hollering and wishing for meaning. So, on the day of Christmas that year, they asked what he meant. He just smiled at them, knowing he finally got his wish.

----------Charlie, after fighting a system for a pen and a pad of paper, began to write.



----------My name… is not important. I'm here in prison for reasons I'm not sure of. No one told me that fighting against my mother and father, who beat me every day no matter what the weather was like. All they cared about was my grades, my dolls, and my reputation, but never me. Never Charlie, just Charlie’s grades, Charlie’s dolls, and Charlie’s future. When I was being beat, I would try to fight back. I would swing my hand to the left, clipping my father’s cheek, but he would pin it down and leave bruises that stung like bee stings. Mother would be there too, telling me that I should wear a sweater tomorrow, and tell no one of the bruises I had received. It didn’t make sense.

----------So I took the high road.


----------After getting fed up of their beatings, I took the final few punches before ending the pain.


----------This incident has kept me free from others. I am fine without them. All they do is laugh at me one day and be fearful the next. In this prison, the guards try to change what I’ve seen, putting on a smile around me to see that what I experienced wasn’t true. But this was what they were told to do around me, smile all the while and let me know that I was liked. I was okay. I’m fine. Yet those smiles seems forced, like the hot pink lips on my doll-like crush's face. The guards only care about me because I did something bad. Real bad. Now I’m serving time for it, so they’re my new sitters.

----------Despite the new caretakers, there was nothing wrong with the prison I’m at. I do a lot of writing to kill time, sitting down in my chair to just let the words flow. I want to write words that will be meaningful to others, ones that will form great stories and make people inspired to move forward in life. But who will read something from a jailed freak like me? No one, they'll think, as they forget of Vincent Van Gogh, whose mind ran art into a new world of stars and swirls. No one made fun of him for that because his voice was not heard until he died. That was when his talent had been discovered.

----------Maybe I should die too.

----------—

----------I don't think so.

----------I'll be sitting here in wake, partial to the storm brewing outside. I'll be perched on my chair, writing stories that men would be inspired by. I'll be letting my mind run wild, like my mother always wanted me to. I'll let my crushes be in writing, not in the form of plastic hopes and horrible dreams.

----------I'll let my soul scream to the sounds of the world on fire.







----------As alarm bells ring and other black-armored guardsmen equip their colored batons, I stand up and take a few deep breaths to try and calm my nerves. Today, a man by the name of Charlie Wooden was to be freed after spending thirty-five years of his life behind bars. When he first arrived, he was not violent. However, as time progressed, he began to angry as the days went by. When he finally snapped, he lashed at other inmates in the main hold, and when the other guards and I heard of a fight ensuing, we rushed out with our garb and quelled the fighting. However, I was the first to approach Charlie's limp body, which was sprawled unconscious on the cold cement floor. From that moment forth, I knew I was to be his guard.

----------He's not a bad guy. For instance, every time I come to the door to give him food, he thanks me and asks if I would like to sit with him to just talk about our days. At first, I was hesitant, knowing that the rules are to not interact with inmates like this—they could be dangerous. However, as he continues to pester me a second, third, and even fourth time, I could not help it. The day of his fourth plea, we ate and chatted together without another guard knowing. There I learned a lot about him, how his childhood was ruined by his mother, why he did what he did to his parents, and how his whole life story turned upside down when he came to the penitentiary. He told me everything to the nitty-gritty.

----------He wanted to know if I was okay with knowing of his crushes, his pain, his misfortunes and his fortunes. I told him that I've accepted who he was since he came. I am like this with all inmates, unless they decide to retaliate. Charlie didn’t do that at all, so he was a calm spot in the prison. He was happy when I told him of my acceptance, and then asked me if I played with dolls when I was younger. I told him I did, until my father told me it was wrong. I should've been playing with pink cars instead of blue dolls.

----------When he heard that, he cried. He asked to be alone after that.

----------I gave him his peace, and after several more meetings with bare conversation about our days and heartbroken gazes, I am here to release him.

----------Keeping my belt on tight, I walk to his unit, which was a cell worn down by age with a grey door that masks the horrors inside. I slowly give the door a knock. Hearing nothing but grumbles, I give it a rather fierce one for good measure.

----------"Yes?" an emotionless voice echoes from within.

----------I let my hand return to rest. "It's the day."

----------At first, I hear nothing. Then, after a few moments of counting cars, I hear him stir from his bed. He then opens a small hatch, his beady blue eyes peering at me. "The day?"

----------I give him a nod. "Release day, Charlie. Congratulations."

----------He doesn’t even say anything in response as he walks away from the door and sits by his bed, his arms wrapping behind his back. He already knew the drill, since we rehearsed it every day. He’s probably excited that he’s being released. I smile as I open the door and handcuff his arms together. "Is this too tight?"

----------He shakes his head. "No," he says with a frown. "Not enough."

----------I raise a brow at him. "But if I go any tighter, the cuffs could break in—"

----------"I'm…" His voice slowly falters. "I'm sorry." Tears brim his eyes, before slowly falling to the ground in sorrow. "I… don’t know where I'm going to go today, so if I can feel a bit better knowing my home is not a lie and that this is not a dream, would you make them tighter? Even if I bleed? Please?"

----------I shake my head. "I can't do that."

----------He frowns and stares at his desk. I look there too, seeing all the papers lay neatly on his easel, but by his bed lay his pen. He looks at his pen, and then again at his pad of paper. He turns to me and asks, "Can she come with?"

----------"Pardon?"

----------"Can… she come with?"

----------I look at the pen and paper before saying, "Is she the paper?"

----------He nods. "I… can't leave her here." He gets up and stares at the papers on his desk. "She is my life and she lets me write on her all the time…"

----------I nod and grab the papers and pen for him. I wish I glanced at them before just giving it to him, but it's not my place to peek at "her", even if I am curious about what he wrote. What could he have done sitting at that easel in thirty-five years? I let this question wander in my brain while I talk to him about his final day in prison. Maybe he wrote a book. About what? I don’t know.

----------Sighing, I let the moment wash over me. Is it wrong to be sad that he's leaving forever? Is he I take a few deep breaths as I prepare to walk down with him for the final time, carrying his fragile arms and brittle bones to the changing room, where new clothes are waiting for him. With the thought of giving him freedom, I take one final look at him. I see him trembling on his bed, which creaks like a baby crawling on an unstable platform. He looks up at me and says,

--------------------"I

------------------------------don't

----------------------------------------wanna

--------------------------------------------------go."


----------The words I heard made me raise a brow. "Why?"

--------------------"She

----------------------------------------is

------------------------------------------------------------gone."

----------Those words slowly trickle out of his mouth as if he had been stabbed by several sharp daggers. "How do you know?"

----------Choking up sobs, Charlie replies, "When I feel her, she…

--------------------She

------------------------------don't

----------------------------------------feel

---------------------------------------------------like

-------------------------------------------------------plastic."


----------I sigh. She isn't plastic, she's paper. She's just the bark from several trees and ground up like she should be. Why would she be plastic?

----------He must've caught onto my puzzled gaze, searching for answers that I don't know about. He sighs too, and says, "I want people to know that I love her… Still do."

----------"Who?"

----------He glares at me, before saying, "I told you, didn't I? She is Anna—she is my crush—she is dead—burned like a doll—she still there," he says, his eyes glaring at the papers in my hands. "You feel her, don't she feel like plastic?"

----------I graze my fingertips over her and feel nothing but grain. "No."

----------He quivers. "Then she don't be here. She dead," he says, whimpering. With eyes looking grey and a lip quivering in sadness, he murmurs his final few words.

----------"I --------need ------------help…"

----------"Come here…" I say, wrapping him in a hug. He lets his tears cascade down his cheeks, soaking my shoulder pads. Every drop feels like a sting from a scorpion. Every whimper and scream sounds like a man losing himself to his mind. I sigh and keep patting him on his back. "Don't you worry, we'll help you."

----------"No you won't…" Trailing but still there, his voice continues, "you'll be gone like the rest of 'em, smiling and laughing at me."

----------"Then let them laugh."

----------He pulls away and raises a brow at me. "Huh?"

----------"Let them laugh at you. Who cares about them?"

----------"I…" His words fall deaf. Distraught and cuffed, Charlie just shrugs, not being able to answer me.

----------"It's hard, knowing that they don't like you, but in the end, will it even matter?

----------He reluctantly shakes his head.

----------"Then why worry? You’ll find people out there, I’m sure of it."

----------As the words leave my mouth, I can’t help but watch him slowly change his concerned frown to that of a blank stare. Seconds, minutes, maybe even an hour passes before I even see him twitch. Then, with a gaze full of pain, he turns to me and says, "Then she can stay."

----------"Pardon?"

----------"Lay

--------------------her

------------------------------to

--------------------------------------------------sleep."

----------"Why?"

----------"She

--------------------didn’t

------------------------------care."

----------"So you will leave her here?"

----------"Until she is grabbed, tossed into a fire, burns, and lets that

--------------------plastic face

------------------------------wear off her pretty body,

------------------------------------------then she

-------------------------------------------------will

---------------------------------------------------------stay

--------------------------------------------------------------home."

----------I sigh. So he's letting her go? I'm not sure if I understand him. Standing up and facing him, I say, "So you're letting her go?"

----------He nods. "She didn't care. She never cared."

----------"Then let's go!”

----------I smile as I see him get up and stand beside me. He lets me grab a hold of his cuffed arms. He gives me a smile that sends shivers down my spine. This is the last time I’ll see him. This is the final time we will talk. I think he’ll do fine out there; his family isn’t around anymore. Maybe he’ll find someone new to talk to? I know he will.

----------So why worry?

----------Walking down the main flat, where men bang on doors and swear constantly at the freed, I keep my close eye on Charlie. He looks at each cell and silently trembles to the sounds of their words. However, when we exit the main flat, he turns to me and asks, "Why do they speak like that?"

----------"They want you to know your place," I reply. "It's common when you're in the main hold."

----------"I'm glad I wasn't there."

----------I frown. "You were when I found you."

----------"What?"

----------"Nothing," I grumpily answer.

----------He says nothing about it. Nothing at all.





----------After handing him to two more guards in similar black vestments, I stand by the front desk secretary, who is a pretty, white, pink-lipped and blue-eyed doll. She currently is peering into a book while her pen slowly underlines certain words like "ache" and "pain". I'm not sure why she's even doing this, considering she is usually pounding numbers and letters into the computer beside her. Not to mention that I have never seen her read a book. Curious, I call to her, "Ma'am?"

----------She looks at me. "Yes?"

----------I point at her book. "Whatcha readin'?"

----------She squeaks and says, "It's n-nothing!"

----------"Doesn't sound like nothing," I say with a smirk. "Try again?"

----------She frowns and flips the book over. "It's about Vincent Van Gogh." Looking at me, she continues, "You've heard of him?"

----------I nod and wave my baton at Charlie. "Charlie talks about him a lot."

----------"Huh," she says, looking at Charlie too, but as she brings her gaze to mine again, she frowns and asks, "Sad seeing him go?"

----------Now it's my turn to be puzzled. "What?"

----------She watches as the second guard takes off the cuffs, while the other one hands him his new clothes and his old grey wallet. "The whole office knows how you talk and eat with him."

----------Even the front desk knew? "How?"

----------A creaky door opens up beside the desk. "Word spreads around the jail quick that a guard is babying an inmate," she replies, smirking too. Crap. "Did you think of the consequences when you first met with Charlie?”

----------"No,” I reply, hanging my head in shame. Blatantly disregarding the rules for my own happiness? What would the Warden think?

----------Speaking of… “You think the Warden would be mad at me?"

----------She shakes her head. "He would've came a long time ago if he was mad at you."

----------Figures. "Well, why does it matter if Charlie and I talk then?"

----------"It's just… important to see someone you care about off before they leave," she says with a drawn out sigh.

----------As I am about to ask her what she meant, I see Charlie emerging from the nearby changing room with his hands fiddling with the zipper of his new white jacket. His white sneakers scuff up the tile floor, while his blue jeans replace those dirty orange pants all the inmates wear. Ordinary attire for chilly Hawthorne's Hill, I know, but it's all we have for those returning to civilian life. And as the guard waves him down, I see him smile at me with his hand waving rather rapidly. I return the gesture with a much slower pace, and sharing a final smile with him. Turning, he exits the building and enters the snowstorm outside, leaving her behind.

----------As the guards who saw him off walk past, I feel a sense of dread building inside me. Those words the secretary said creep on me and shake me to the core. Should I have stood beside Charlie and told him goodbye? Was the simple wave enough? Feeling distressed, I look to where the cute secretary sat, but much to my dismay, she is gone.

----------“Where did she go?” Peering down the hall, to my right and to my left, I see nothing but white walls and tile. Where could she have gone?

----------Looking down at her desk in search for clues, I spot her book. Those dang words underlined in it glare at me with a vengeance with its dark black lines and worn font. However, something about the book seems amiss. There, on the bottom right edge of the page, is a white sticky note. There were some words scribbled on it. Curious, I pick up the book and with a gasp, I read the note aloud: