There are many locks and doors and cages in Lechaina but none as strong as I, the lock of the unlovable.
Each sector of the world, no matter where it may appear, has an unwanted lock of its own. I am most commonly known as the lock for those who are rejected and unwanted and unloved. These human beings have done nothing wrong but society sees them as a burden of unwarranted guilt placed on their shoulders. A stain of imperfection on their delicate and flawless sleeve. Usually, there would be a key to free the strength of my lock, a trick to open me. But I do not open with ease. I keep them in, no matter what they have done.
I am strong and dark and relentless like the concentration received from the pupil of an eye. I am the shadow cast on the side of wall, when the sun is about to set. Some say that I am necessary, that I keep the people in line. Others resist saying that I am the reason for pain. Loneliness; a taste of death. Some that are trapped inside, loose themselves in mental illness, in addition to their disoriented physiological state or violence to forget the inner pain.
I, the remorseless lock, have witnessed the pain and suffering of the people confined by the chipped steel bars that I keep bonded together. I am the glue, they are the shattered segments. Created to fix them, I feel as though it is impossible. Their mental states are unrecoverable, too far lost. They are marginalized, not the same as the others. They seem to feel but do not realize that what is happening is wrong.
Cries of help and screams of pain can be heard echoing through the containment centre at all hours of the day. I, the lock of the unloved, remain tightly latched no matter the circumstance. Gatekeepers dressed in happiness boasting scrubs pass in front me. Perhaps to disguise the immoral actions they purse, as something that will benefit the unlovable and unwanted prisoners.
They are trapped inside, contained by the barred wall that forces them to feel alone. They stand and rock backwards and forwards, staring through the steel pillars, praying that I release. When I am unlocked, the children jump down on to the stone floor which lays beneath me. Desperately they wrap their stick like arms around the caretakers. Now, not so alone. Shortly after this moment of great joy, of having someone to touch, a moment that seems to bring warmth to their ice cold bodies, they are locked back in without a fuss. The cage is their home.
I am a mighty lock.
Many days were quiet. The rising and setting of the sun did not matter. Fed and controlled by the guards, these children had no freedom.
The doors were locked just like every other day. Care takers came in to feed the children. Their mouths open wide to the spoon that is directed towards them three times a day. A sign that they are run by automaticity rather than authority. They have no real control of their bodies. Today, different from the others, I am unlatched. The children are able to rome free. Their spirits seem to float through the air like a white dove- carrying a message of independence. Smiles spread across their faces, the widest I have ever seen. They play, their free. Not for long.
I am soon picked back up from the dusty oak table, which I lay. The innocent but viewed as guilty because of difference, are thrown back behind the steel barrier- which separates their uniqueness from the rest of society.
The door slams shut and I, the lock of the unlovable latch to a close. The freedom they have experienced immediately dispersed- like a gun shot piercing the mind. . .