A heavy metal latch drops coldly and firmly in place and seals the man’s fate. Tepid light struggles to penetrate the grated square in a lonely corner of the bare wall which joins abruptly with the low-set ceiling. Grey, featureless walls close in on the man and accentuate the constriction in his chest. He risks short, shallow, inaudible breaths.
Reality sinks in, like a needle into the heart of an old growth tree. Further. Deeper. Irretractable.
Fatal.
Reality courses through his veins like a truth serum that will slowly erode his resistance and reduce him to an empty shell.
The man and the tree are intertwined. Both will be missed. Initially. But life will soon hurtle forward in the dynamic coastal paradise they both called home. The desirable beachside suburb with enviable ocean views and proximity to stunning beaches and popular shopping and dining precincts, all within easy reach of the Sydney CBD.
In the dim light, he greets his new roommate with justifiable trepidation.
I’m not like him, he assures himself. A mistake has been made. A miscarriage of justice. They belong in prison, not me.
The internal dialogue plays on continual loop.
I didn’t do it
I didn’t do it, a refrain he will hear ad nauseam from his new housemates in the coming days.
He didn’t do it, of course. The arborist did it, in the dead of night, and was duly compensated.
The man is not an arborist.
He is a harbourist.
He lusted after views to die for. He lusted after views to kill for.
He harboured a desire for uninterrupted ocean views and greater resale value. He harboured a desire to savour the wonders of nature, unencumbered by the wonders of nature. Now his new housemates harbour a desire for him. An unquenchable desire.
He coveted views of a secluded bay of azure waters fringed by Sydney sandstone and lush green hues. He now resides in a longer bay and is surrounded by a uniformity of green atop mounds as hard as stone.
His new view is the underside of his roomie’s solid, utilitarian, standard-issue mattress, while he suffers through the first of countless fretful nights on his own solid, utilitarian, standard-issue mattress. His former roommate shared his bed and his obsession with high thread count. His new roomie will soon share his bed and an obsession with a high headcount.
In prison, the salty air does not waft lazily through his bedroom window as the sun breaks the horizon.
In prison, the sea breeze does not caress his skin on languid summer evenings.
There are no trees in prison, and no views to obstruct.
First published in The Beast magazine, January 2024
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