Within the dark cell it was impossible for him to tell if it was night or day. There were no windows. The door had no windows except for a small slot that was kept locked until he needed to eat. In one corner there was a small mattress, thrown on the floor carelessly and certainly old with age. A small pillow and thin tattered blanket accompanied the mattress. The bed was neatly made despite the old and worn materials. On the other side of the room there was a desk, round to prevent the prisoners from injuring themselves on purpose. Even then not every one received the piece of furniture. There was no chair, just a desk. On top of the desk there was papers laid out, but no pencils or pens. The printed papers were books without its binding. Once again to prevent prisoners from hurting themselves.
He wished that he could laugh at the pitiful living situation he had ended himself up in, but it was impossible. Making noises, it was prohibited and if they caught any sign of sound, even just a whisper, they were severely punished.
While he sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the cold tile flooring, his eyes flickered to the desk. He couldn't tell what time it was. Maybe around noon. He was starting to get hungry. Noon was around the time when that happened, or what he assumed was noon. He shook that though away though, pushing himself up off the flattened mattress with a silent groan. If he could scream, he would have, just to break the never ending silence.
Once at his desk, he knelt in front of it, spreading out the papers of the book he had been given. He read it so many times he could probably recite the entire book word for word with his eyes closed. Possibly even in his sleep if he wanted. That was not what he was looking for though. He slowly shuffled through the pages, looking for the one that made him smile each time he saw it. It was hard to smile these days, but seeing this. It lifted his spirits.
Having found what he was looking for, he pulled the paper away from the rest of the story. It was a letter, addressed to him. Well, not him exactly, but his number. He no longer remembered his name. He had forgotten it long ago and ever since receiving these letters he tried to remember it. There was still no luck, but his letters had assured him that he would remember. Maybe not soon, but he would. If anything that gave the dimming flame of hope inside him a bit more of a spark.
There was a creak of metal and he quickly shoved the paper back in with the rest, turning his head towards the door. Thankfully it was not opening, just the slot that offered him his food. He got off his knees and walked towards the door as the food was slid under on a plastic tray. He was only ever given food that he could eat with his hands. Nothing that needed spoons, knives, or forks. Any utensil was out of the question. They were given water in paper cups and normally bread with some sort of meat and cheese to go with it. Not the most filling meal, but it quelled the empty belly he felt he always had. For a little while.
Normally he looked at his food with despair. It never had what he really wanted, but this time he could see it. Underneath the plate of food there was a bit of paper sticking out from beneath it. His heart jumped to his throat as he pulled the tray closer to him. He never knew who was on the other side of the door. He could never ask either. It was odd, one day receiving a paper under his tray with his 'name' written on it, but along with that letter he had been given a piece of paper and a pencil stub. He assumed it was a man on the other side, giving him these things. Whoever it was, he, or she perhaps, was helping him. Along with his food there was a stub of a pencil. Enough for him to write a page worth of words if he used it wisely.
He smiled fondly at the folded piece of paper. The one that gave him so much hope that it was beginning to get dangerous. If these promises written on paper never came true, he knew that his heart would be crushed. It never crossed his mind though, that these promises would never be real.
While he unfolded the paper, he ran his fingers over the writing. Xavier. That was the name of the person on the other side of these letters. He had been like him. Trapped and stuck because of the powers they had. Except he had gotten out. He even promised him that he would come back to save him. To free him. It was the only thing he could hold onto now. He read over his words, smiling to himself, laughing silently, an overall feeling of ease passing over him.
He had fifteen minutes to read, respond to the letter, and finish his meal as well. Normally he did not get to eat everything, because replying to the letter was his top priority.
With the pencil stub in hand and using his tray for support, he began to scribble back a reply. His spelling was awful at times, maybe even impossible to read his handwriting, but Xavier seemed to understand everything he wrote. He was getting better, his handwriting more easy to read.
Finished with his writing he quickly ate his food. It never tasted like anything. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he was not really sure. The slot underneath his door opened once more, waiting for the tray. Scrambling for his letter he sloppily folded it into threes, then placed it on the tray underneath the plate before sliding it near the slot. It was taken away from him and he would have to wait a few days, maybe weeks, for his next reply.
He wished that he could laugh at the pitiful living situation he had ended himself up in, but it was impossible. Making noises, it was prohibited and if they caught any sign of sound, even just a whisper, they were severely punished.
While he sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the cold tile flooring, his eyes flickered to the desk. He couldn't tell what time it was. Maybe around noon. He was starting to get hungry. Noon was around the time when that happened, or what he assumed was noon. He shook that though away though, pushing himself up off the flattened mattress with a silent groan. If he could scream, he would have, just to break the never ending silence.
Once at his desk, he knelt in front of it, spreading out the papers of the book he had been given. He read it so many times he could probably recite the entire book word for word with his eyes closed. Possibly even in his sleep if he wanted. That was not what he was looking for though. He slowly shuffled through the pages, looking for the one that made him smile each time he saw it. It was hard to smile these days, but seeing this. It lifted his spirits.
Having found what he was looking for, he pulled the paper away from the rest of the story. It was a letter, addressed to him. Well, not him exactly, but his number. He no longer remembered his name. He had forgotten it long ago and ever since receiving these letters he tried to remember it. There was still no luck, but his letters had assured him that he would remember. Maybe not soon, but he would. If anything that gave the dimming flame of hope inside him a bit more of a spark.
There was a creak of metal and he quickly shoved the paper back in with the rest, turning his head towards the door. Thankfully it was not opening, just the slot that offered him his food. He got off his knees and walked towards the door as the food was slid under on a plastic tray. He was only ever given food that he could eat with his hands. Nothing that needed spoons, knives, or forks. Any utensil was out of the question. They were given water in paper cups and normally bread with some sort of meat and cheese to go with it. Not the most filling meal, but it quelled the empty belly he felt he always had. For a little while.
Normally he looked at his food with despair. It never had what he really wanted, but this time he could see it. Underneath the plate of food there was a bit of paper sticking out from beneath it. His heart jumped to his throat as he pulled the tray closer to him. He never knew who was on the other side of the door. He could never ask either. It was odd, one day receiving a paper under his tray with his 'name' written on it, but along with that letter he had been given a piece of paper and a pencil stub. He assumed it was a man on the other side, giving him these things. Whoever it was, he, or she perhaps, was helping him. Along with his food there was a stub of a pencil. Enough for him to write a page worth of words if he used it wisely.
He smiled fondly at the folded piece of paper. The one that gave him so much hope that it was beginning to get dangerous. If these promises written on paper never came true, he knew that his heart would be crushed. It never crossed his mind though, that these promises would never be real.
While he unfolded the paper, he ran his fingers over the writing. Xavier. That was the name of the person on the other side of these letters. He had been like him. Trapped and stuck because of the powers they had. Except he had gotten out. He even promised him that he would come back to save him. To free him. It was the only thing he could hold onto now. He read over his words, smiling to himself, laughing silently, an overall feeling of ease passing over him.
He had fifteen minutes to read, respond to the letter, and finish his meal as well. Normally he did not get to eat everything, because replying to the letter was his top priority.
With the pencil stub in hand and using his tray for support, he began to scribble back a reply. His spelling was awful at times, maybe even impossible to read his handwriting, but Xavier seemed to understand everything he wrote. He was getting better, his handwriting more easy to read.
Finished with his writing he quickly ate his food. It never tasted like anything. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he was not really sure. The slot underneath his door opened once more, waiting for the tray. Scrambling for his letter he sloppily folded it into threes, then placed it on the tray underneath the plate before sliding it near the slot. It was taken away from him and he would have to wait a few days, maybe weeks, for his next reply.
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