Each time I walk up the stairs, a soft yet vigorous buzzing. His bulbous eye complexes staring back at me as he thuds repeatedly and incessantly against the glass. The white stripes on his back oscillating gently back and forth. Morning to evening, each cigarette I see him. Colliding again and again with the glass. I feel his frustration, the ball of twine getting ever tighter yet ever larger in his belly. Three millimeters between himself and liberation. Or, unbeknownst to him, five centimeters to the left, around one piece of two-bi-four, an open door, the fresh, humid air.
The black and stinking butt of my cigarette in the old ceramic pot, I walk past him again. ‘Aren’t you going crazy there buddy? The whole day smashing against the glass?’ Picking up Marcel’s black sock from the floor I try to sweep him towards emancipation. He resists. ‘Come on man, its got to be boring. Don’t you want to get out?’. Each time digging in, pressing himself against the glass and traversing away from the sweet smell of freedom. Finally I spot a scrunched A5 piece of 10mm square printed maths paper.
Unfolding the paper, I slide it underneath him and propel him over the two-bi-four and buzzing ecstatically out into the afternoon sun. Thirty centimeters into his new life, he spins in the air, one hundred and sixty-five degrees, thirty centimeters back and proceeds to bounce himself repeatedly against the glass.