Fiction, Short Story

The Glass House

The following is another short story that I wrote recently as part of a writing prompt exercise. This is an ongoing project with a fellow writer that gives both of us a chance to practise writing prompts and stories. The original prompt text is in bold.

***

Chink!

Chink!

Karl looked up, just in time to see the the third stone arcing through the air. Chink!

“Stop throwing stones at my house, it’s made of glass!” yelled Karl in a flash of anger, rising from his plastic chair. The teenagers in the street laughed and threw another stone.

Chink!

Hold on, why do I care, it’s not like I even want to be here? thought Karl with a sudden sense of clarity. Even though that was the case, he was still annoyed by the attack. It felt like a violation of his personal space. Karl snorted quietly to himself in faint amusement; the irony of that last sentiment not lost on him. Still, the teenagers were here for a show, and if he gave them one by getting angry then they’d just hang around. If he just ignored them, then hopefully they’d get bored and wander off.

“You know what, that’s fine,” Karl yelled loudly, picking his book up and sitting back down. He wasn’t sure if they’d heard him; they seemed to be laughing and he couldn’t hear that, so probably not. There were no windows for him to open and shout through; you didn’t need them on a glass house, and you definitely didn’t need them on a prison.

Chink!

Chink!

Karl read and re-read the same sentence in his book six times, not really taking it in.

Chink!

The silence lengthened after the seventh impact; moments became seconds became minutes. Karl was finally able to proceed to the next sentence. The next sentence in his book that is, not the next prison sentence.

Karl was a convicted criminal. His crime was voyeurism. He’d taken advantage of his job at the local leisure centre to install hidden webcams in the changing rooms. Five years and countless terabytes of video files later, and he had finally been caught. The long years of successful filming had made him blasé. He could never imagine getting caught – until he was. Then suddenly he was staring down the barrel of fifteen years, and a lifetime on the sex offenders register.

Except…except then he had been offered another option. The current government was slipping and sliding dangerously to the right and were keen to answer media charges that prison sentences weren’t tough enough and criminals weren’t visibly seen to be punished.

Well, you can’t get much more visible than this, mused Karl, looking up through his roof at the grey sky. Karl had been offered an alternative to his lengthy sentence; take part in this pilot scheme for high-profile punishments and he’d only have to serve five years, with another five years on the register after release. All he had to do was spend those years under house arrest…in a house made entirely of glass.

Was this justice or irony? After the first week Karl had decided it could be both. The shorter prison term had seemed like the no-brainer choice at the time and he had seized the opportunity with both hands. But now he wished he’d thought about it for a moment or two longer, then he might have chosen the fifteen years of privacy instead.

There were some good bits to his situation, like when there was a storm. Karl could watch uninhibited as the lightning danced across the sky and the rain made mesmerising patterns in the transparent guttering. But mostly it was bad. Like transparent-bathroom-wall bad. Like plastic-bed-sheets-bad. Like being-woken-up-at-4:30am-on-a-sunny-summer-morning bad. Like only-allowed-three-small-books-a-week-so-he-couldn’t-build-a-wall-with-them bad.

Sometimes people came by to jeer and throw stones – like today – but mostly they just came to stare. Karl often wondered if any of the people he’d secretly filmed over the years came to watch him. He knew he would have done, had the situation been reversed. But then again, that was kind of his thing.

Karl stopped reading and looked down at the barely visible notches he’d carved into the arm of his transparent plastic chair; 72 weeks down, 168 to go. Karl groaned quietly to himself. That was still a hell of a lot of early sunrises and fast-as-humanly-possible showers…