The Lion and The Lamb

I felt the abrupt ground as my body was forcefully thrown to the concrete, and the clatter of iron echoed down the corridors as the entryway was sealed behind me. I was only given a tattered and worn button-up shirt and a soft pair of capris seemingly made from produce sacks. There was nothing in the corner as far as I could see, and upon turning around, I had a clear view of a concrete floor with paint chips that had either peeled over time or been picked off by the last unfortunate soul. The rusting iron bars that contained me marked this as my new home.

It was cold enough for my bare feet to refuse to conform to the ground; they were stiff, colorless, and turned white when I attempted to flex my toes. My mind felt empty, yet somehow it was racing all at once. I think I was given someone else's clothing, as they were extremely dirty, overused, and smelled like a mixture of tar and stale sweat. I understood why I was here; temptation seeped from my pores, and impulse plagued my mind, leading me to my ultimate downfall. Now I was stuck, complete, at the end, and rendered nothing more than a paperweight... again. There was no telling how long my stay would be.

I lifted my head and saw a cell directly across from mine. She lay on the floor, stomach down, with her arms stretched next to her face and one leg pulled up to her chest as if she’d released herself from a tense fetal position. Her hair was a strikingly dark brown, and her eyes were brown too, but the sun glimmered through an iron-grated window, bringing out the green in her eyes and opening a doorway into her fragile soul. She was dressed in a perfectly white gown, free of any wrinkles, yet her eyes appeared glossy, unmoving, and filled with pain. She looked like a beloved ghost, staring only through me, allowing me to feel the rigidity in her aura. Was someone coming to get her? Was she breathing? Was she even alive?

The blush undertone in her cheeks reminded me of my father's favorite plaid shirt... I missed him; he would know what I should do. A tear trickled down my cheek, but when I wiped it, nothing was there. Alarmed, I looked up and saw the girl sitting up, no longer looking through me but at me. How are her clothes so spotless in this filthy cell? How does looking in her eyes erase my shame? Who is she?

The need for rest overwhelmed me, and I soon succumbed to it. My dreams were void and weightless, allowing my mind to slip back into a less distressed state. The girl was sitting in the same position as when I fell asleep, now tracing what looked like letters into the ground.

"Why are you here?"

"I know how to get out, but I can never leave."

I felt desperation pour over me, but why was she unable to leave? And why did I care?

"Why haven’t you asked me how I got here?"

"Because I already know."

Somehow, I found that comforting. I didn’t want to talk about my mistakes; better yet, I didn’t regret any of them right now. Instead, I spent my time telling her everything else.

I told her about losing my father at a young age and how my mother refuses to show her struggle but always pressures me to live life to a different tune. I told her how my children are both the most emotionally aware people I know and the most exciting things that have ever happened to me. Talking to her was so easy. For once, I felt personable and accepted, and most of all, I finally felt peace. Peace in my darkest moment.

She was captivated by both my life and my mistakes—the ones I chose to share. It made me feel so comfortable to be exactly who I’ve always wanted to be…myself.

“I’m here because…” I began, but before I could say another word, she interrupted,

“You traded it all away without knowing the true cost. I know.”

What’s worse? Living a life of indifference or being irrevocably myself? Why does the foulest place in my mind hold a beauty I don’t want to leave?

She said, “I cannot leave. If I did, I would never be able to help people like you. And I cannot go where you are going; there is no new beginning for me. I implore you to heal your hurt and return promptly.”

This made me sad. Why did she have to stay? And how did she know when I would leave?

I woke abruptly, without remembering how our conversation had ended. I noticed the cell across from me was empty, and there was a certain stillness in the air. My clothes felt new; I looked down and saw I was wearing freshly washed cotton clothing, all flawlessly white. She was being escorted through her entryway, shackled so heavily that she couldn’t lift her arms. They looked far too heavy—those would hurt her.

The guard then turned his attention to me, instructing me to stand as he said, “You are free to go.” I looked at her in panic; I wasn’t ready. I could see tears gently streaming down her face. She said, “You did it, see?” but the guard pushed me down the corridor before I could respond.

As she sat in her cell, I climbed the stairs to freedom, but every step felt heavier the further I got from the dreaded fate we both endured. I wanted to take her with me. Why must she stay? The doors opened, and the guard released my arm as I reunited with my children and their mother. She greeted me with an enthusiastic smile, but I turned back and studied the clay prison that had captivated me. It looked so much cleaner from the outside…

The sun and warmth on my skin reminded me of what I’d missed. But what about the indifference? And how did I even get out? Why couldn’t I forget her?

After a week of feigning nonchalance, I grabbed my phone and made a call. It rang ten times before I heard a familiar voice—it was the same guard who’d escorted me out.

“The girl in the cell across from me…has she been released?”

“There was no one else there, sir.”

The call ended, and I continued to hold the phone to my ear. I know she was real. I just know it.

My wife asked what was wrong, and I responded, “Nothing,” though an inquisitive look must have crossed my face. The memory of her felt like my own pair of shackles, but no one else could see them. They were heavy.

Three months later, my children were running at the park while I kept a light eye on them, reading the newspaper. Hurricanes were hitting the East Coast again, but here in the Midwest, we were well out of the disaster's path. I hadn’t slept well last night, but I still managed to get some nice pictures of my boys and send them to their mother.

My coffee cup slipped from my fingers and splashed across the sidewalk, soaking my shoes. There she was. I walked quickly down the sidewalk toward her, but when she turned around, she looked unrecognizable, even though her features matched my memory. It wasn’t her…but for a moment, I thought it was.

Fear-stricken, I wondered if she was still in that clay prison and why I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Should I go back? Is my indifference enough to do that, or is that just another form of the same temptation that put me there?

“Boys, pack up. We need to leave.”