He stared at the worn bible on the small table on the other side of the small cell. Tap, tap, tap, he tapped his pen absentmindedly against the empty page of his journal resting on his lap. There was something mocking about the presence of the holy book and the way it had sat almost exactly on the same spot for nearly two years, unopened. It was the fifth day... no maybe sixth, that he had just sat on his bunk after the days’ work in the scorching sun, the journal on his lap while the page remained empty. There was nothing new to write or draw, it was all the same.
The guards changing shifts told the passage of time, it was the same man every week at this time.
But today, instead of going to his post, he stopped at the door of his cell as another two sets of footsteps followed after. The door was opened and a blond man was escorted in. He stared dumbfounded as the clink of restraints removed and the door locking behind bounced as an echo off the walls. The Chelsea smile still raw from new scar tissue on the right side of his face, reminded him of a time he still had more fight left in him. Talking to other inmates was not allowed.
The cells had only room for one.
@forgedwest
