He struggled to the edge of the bed, dropping down into his slippers. Light was creeping past the bars. He sighed, another day.
Standing before the polished steel mirror, face distorted, he couldn't tell if he recognised the reflection. Was it him? Who was he? Forty years living in this tomb. First, he dreamt of his crime waking, sweating. Then he dreamt of it waking, crying. Then he dreamt of his own life terrified. Now he couldn't remember his crime or his old life and dreams stayed away.
Days blurred, vaselined into a shapeless time, only noted by light and dark, seen through bars and an endless scratching of whistles, keys and chains.
He touched his face. It moved like dried parchment, crinkling at the edges. Was this his face? It must be. The tap dribbled cold water into the sink, its noise was deafening. He closed his eyes, wet his skin, drawing a razor over his head and face. The bristling, cutting hair played loudly. It didn't take long. There wasn't much left. He felt fresher. Eyes stared back pale blue, hollow, empty, lonely. Who was this man before him? He’d forgotten.
Routine. Life is routine. He dressed, brushed his teeth, made his bed, folding corners, smoothing out creases and surveyed his 6 metres square domain. Home. He sighed.
One day he thought, he will not wake up, it will all be over. Everyone he knew is dead or lost. No-one will miss him. He won't even miss being alive. The only ones who will notice, will be those who believe his death will bring closure. It never does. There's no eraser for mistakes made in life. All we can do is turn the page.
The chair squeaked as his frail form cracked into it. The thermos’s water was tepid. The cell door wouldn't open for two hours. With a plastic spoon he stirred the coffee in a plastic Cup. The smell was acrid. A memory of a table and the places around it made him sigh, fading before he dwelt on it. Fingers trembled against rolling papers and tobacco. A lighter clicked. Plumes of dirty clouds wafted. He’d thought of giving up. Change frightened him. It would only leave more empty hours to fill.
Smoke and coffee stuck to his mouth. Caffeine and nicotine began to stir him. He stared blankly at the bare wall. It was too early to read. He’d long since stopped watching television or listening to the radio. The whole world seemed so fast, even speech was frantic. He mused over the day ahead. It wasn't chocolate pudding day, shopping day or even the day the kind guard worked. He sighed. It was just another day, a quiet day, a lonely day, a long day.
His lips passed heavy smoke deep into his lungs. He sipped cold coffee, trickling smoke through his nose, wondering why he’d woken up this morning? Hoping inside, it would be his last.
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