Chow time. Chow time.
His sleep had been dreamless and so deep it took many seconds for him to open his eyes. He heard the sound of the large food trays and pans being banged around in the dining hall.
Chow time. He raised his head and looked into the hallway. His door was open and two other inmates walked past on their way to breakfast. The normal sounds of morning were loud and made him jump from the bed. He staggered slightly as he joined the others on their way to the dining hall. Their voices and laughter weren't loud, but the sound of other voices and the activity around him helped prevent any thought of the previous night from disturbing him.
He joined the others standing in line against the far wall in the dining room. The six seats at each of the three stainless steel tables were occupied. He leaned against the wall as his legs threatened to collapse. He wasn't conscious of what anyone was saying, but the sound of voices and the presence of the others was comforting. It helped keep his mind blank. When a seat was available he was given a tray of food, and as he walked to the table he noticed the coffee spilling over the side of the cup. The few feet to the table seemed endless and he gratefully sat down sighing deeply. The sugar was pushed to him and he automatically poured some in his coffee and cereal. He stirred his coffee staring at his tray for several seconds. Then he noticed bread on the tray of the man opposite him. There was none on his. He looked behind him where the food was handed out and he noticed the bread. He looked at the bread for a few seconds, then started to stand, but sat back down. Somehow it didn't seem to be worth all the trouble of walking the few feet to the bread. He turned back to his coffee cup and choked it with both hands, then lowered his head to it. The coffee spilled over into his eggs, but he managed to drink half of it. He put the cup down and sat up straight. He stared at his shaking hands.
Give it up fellas. Give it up. It's been fun, but it's time to run.
The man opposite him got up and carried his tray over to the garbage can, dumped what was left into it, then put the tray on the small cart. He followed, automatically doing the same, then wandered back to his room.
He stood just inside the door and looked around the room—at the bed, the stainless steel stand next to it, then up at the window over the bed. A small bare room. Nothing unusual, yet, at the same time, nothing familiar. He felt as if he had never been here before. But it was only a short time before that he had left this room. He had been in this room before. How long? The thought was vague and rushed through his mind. He glanced at the commode, the wash basin and mirror over it. He looked in the mirror. His face was haggard and bearded. He rubbed his chin with a shaking hand. If he could remember when he shaved last, he might be able to figure approximately what day it was. He tried to think but no matter how hard he tried to force his mind it was useless. A thought would almost start to form, then be quickly smothered by a thick haze. He blinked and continued staring at the mirror.
He turned as the door was closed and locked. He glanced at the door, stared at it quizzically for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and sat on the side of the bed. He opened the drawer of the bedside stand. It was empty except for a few grains of tobacco. He stared at it a second, then closed it and lay down. He looked at the light on the ceiling, then furtively at the wall. He frowned, nodded his head then sat up and looked at the door and the small window in it, his frown deepening. What was it he should remember? What was it that was stuck in his mind… that was struggling to make itself known? He shook his head and lay back down. He closed his eyes and drifted through a half sleep. It was a good bed. And a thick comfortable pillow. The covers were up around his neck, his hands clutching the edge. He snuggled into the bed, the comfort of a bed and clean sheets almost forgotten, bringing ancient memories vaguely to mind. His bearded face relaxed into a smile as he felt the cool water of the stream on his feet as he stretched out on the grass, his pole beside him. You will never catch any fish like that son. I know Dad, but I just feel like hanging my feet in the stream. I can always get some fish later. The older man looked at his young son and smiled. Maybe you're right Roy. It is a nice day. He continued to look at his only child with, perhaps, a slight hint of envy as the bright sun seemed to make his son's face and blond hair glow. The stream moved with the smallest of sounds, the slight rustling of the leaves on the trees barely audible. Birds flew to and fro deep within the branches and chirped and sang contentedly as they floated and fluttered from tree to sky and sky to ground. Butterflies hovered over groups of buttercups shining amidst green grass.