The Meat It Feeds On

        

The hour has finally arrived for morning exercise. I am standing in the yard, taking in the glorious weather. I close my eyes, feel the heat on my eyelids and am reminded that they are red on the inside. My face is warm all over with happy sunshine. I know it’s a cliché but this is how I feel; I am so glad to be alive and I wish everyday was like this. The weather reminds me of when I was on the outside, in my back garden, attempting to read Hardy one late afternoon, under an old oak tree, watching the flickering origami-like shadows dance on the pages. The bird orchestra was in full swing. What better accompaniment to Hardy’s descriptions of nature! I had a great seat in my verdant auditorium. The three dimensional surround sounds of the hierarchical choir voices filled the air. What splendid acoustics! Better than the Royal Albert Hall. And all free. The sopranos were particularly shrill that day. The voice that was particularly reminiscent of the traditional Happy Birthday song added a touch of humour; could this have been its original author? The singular cackling alto added a much darker edge to the symphony by its staccato sounds.  

    

     I’m done with exercising. Now off to the canteen to get a cool glass of water. Here comes the guard. It’s here.

       ‘There you are, Governor. Nice weather we’re ‘avin, in it?’ Trev says, as he hands me a letter.

        ‘Thank you so much. It certainly is beautiful. A day to remember’ I replied.

       I return to my cell and lie on my bed. I slowly caress the top of the letter knowing that Lucy had touched it too. I carefully open it like it is made of the most delicate lace, afraid to snap a single thread. I gingerly pull out the multicoloured picture of Lucy. I add it to my wall collection and then I will look at it. I stand back a few steps and look at her. She smiles at me and I smile back. She’s sitting on the beige leather sofa at home, looking relaxed.  Her natural smile radiates warmth and love. I can feel it. Lucy is still beautiful; petite frame, gorgeous long, brown, curly hair that rests on her shoulders and contrasts with her twinkling, emerald eyes. She’s wearing a burgundy dress and that sapphire necklace I gave her for our anniversary. Her beautiful, elegant hands are clasped in front of her. She is wearing my ring. Lucy is such a pretty woman. I miss her. I quickly scan the letter; only four pages, but lots of Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger took this picture especially for you darling Roger is ever so good at photography Roger went to a night class in photography Roger has a new car it is a red one with leather interior it is ever so nice and Roger helps me with my shopping you know I suffer with backache Roger is ever so helpful you’ll like Roger you’ve got so much in common I can’t wait until you get out it won’t be long now Roger is a good looking bastard but there’s nothing in it honestly really swear to God.

      Swear to God the solid, heavy weight in my stomach contracts and spreads like a cancerous invader, only much faster. It is now part of me; part of who I am. I know it will never leave me. It loves me. It needs me. Two more things than you do. I will never be alone in my cell again. It is my cruel best friend; my painful parasite; my nerves and sanity are its culinary delights. An evil gastronomic feast; help yourself; buy one, get one free, as much as you can eat banquet.

      My spit splatters her picture on the wall, and I watch the slime slowly slide down, like a slug. I rip the picture off the wall, and try to tear it into tiny fragments of kaleidoscopic confetti. I violently throw the pieces up in the air, some of them stick to my hands but most of them flutter to the ground. Oh, how pretty.