Cell Block Four

Imagine a piece of bread. A single piece of bread. You see bread is what got me here and bread is what keeps me here. It never occurred to me that a single piece of bread stolen for a starving child would damn me to this boredom that now consumes my unenergetic body.

I sit on a cold footing and await one of my three daily visits from the guard. He is the one that escorts the bread to my unforgiving chamber. It is the only way I can track the time. The only window in my cell is so minute that the light from the moon has no distinction from that of the sun. My three visits from the guard allow me to pinpoint the time of day. The first visit comes at dawn, the second at high noon, and the third at dusk.

This bread does not come fresh from the oven, warm and chewy, like at home, but cold, moldy and stale. The bread always comes accompanied with a glass of lukewarm, musty water. This water comes from a large rusty jug that has been dipped into the heart of the old well. The old well lives only yards away from the gallows, this gives the water a distinct taste, compliments of the rotting remains that lay near by. The water is not contaminated enough to cause death, but has on occasion made me violently ill.

It is ironic that food and drink considered unfit for beast, is seen as good enough for a prisoner such as myself.

These four walls make me dizzy, yet I could tell you the exact number of stone blocks in each row and on each wall. I have double and triple checked these numbers, so I am quite sure that I am precise with these figures. I have a lifetime to pass, and counting has become a new favourite of mine. I have counted everything from the stones that lay under my scarecrow like figure, to the cobwebs that hang lifelessly from the corners of my stone tomb.

I had a cellmate who had entertained me for most of my long days, however these days she is not so interesting. She was a peasant woman that went by the name of Laurah. She was condemned to this hell for being named her master’s mistress. She now sits quietly, cold and stiff in the corner. Her once rosemary skin now reeks of death. I find myself staring at her watching the resident vermin dispose of her little by little.

The vermin that feed on her seem plump and extremely healthy. I have craved the taste of flesh for years. Everyday I want more and more to consume her tender flesh, and everyday she further spoils. I crawl over to her limp body; her eyes stare lifelessly into mine. Her bones are brittle and easy to break. I break her left wrist and attempt to pull it from her body. It will not give. I have nothing to sever it with.

The guard arrives. I have not been tracking his visits; therefore his arrival means nothing to me. Like an animal I chew through the bread that has been slipped through a small opening in my cell door. I then drink my water hoping that it will deaden my desire for Laurah’s flesh. I lay my head down and rest for a while, my skeleton like body tires very quickly.

My dreams consist of horrors that keep me from wanting to close my eyes.