The Prisoner

There was no escape. Not this time. Not even for him. The one they called ‘The Magic Man’.
The man they all hated. Hunted down for voicing his heart. The man who had been locked in every dungeon in Europe by his own reckoning and had escaped them all. Even the Bastille. Even the Inquisition.
In fairness it was about time. He still bore the marks of last time. Inside and out. He had come close to execution. Very close! But this was different. This time he was afraid.
Of course it wasn’t magic. There’s no such thing. Sorry if that disappoints you.
This was science. Logic. Everywhere else had a method. A plan of some kind or another.
The last time it was a knife they left behind. And an old sheet they had forgotten about. That was probably his best escape yet. The thrill of running away before anyone had even noticed he was gone.
If truth wants us to raise its head he sometimes made his capture easy. Just for the excitement of getting out. The thrill of escape.
There was only pure dread as the noose tightened. And the moment of Doom came ever closer.
As the cool intrepid escape artist who had once disappeared in the midst of a raging battle that had only started over him in the first place, when the world had gone mad, waited for Fate to take over. He had never been so superstitious.
But like I said, this time was different. This time it wasn’t steel or death or torture he was facing. This time he wasn’t locked in by force but by love. All he faced this time was himself.
Gazing at the face before him the ‘Magic Man’ sighed. Unbound, unfettered he gave up at the breath of a smile. Entirely.
A sweet voice muttered ‘Dadda’ and, somewhere, the Prisoner died and a new, strange life was born.
Somewhere in the distant future he heard a door creak open, sprinkling happiness onto the no-more eternal Prisoner and his baby girl.