Chapter 38: Prison Diary 2

Today is my fifth day here.

I'm allowed a few books to pass the time, which is why I'm lying on my back in bed with Steinbeck's "East of Eden." But honestly, I don't feel like reading.

I feel my thoughts racing, tumbling around like a ball of yarn, unable to find a place to settle.

Okay, I think I need something else to focus my attention.

I don't know how to put it, but it feels a bit like a starving person being forced into a huge meal. But they've been hungry for so long, their stomach has become sensitive, and ultimately, the meal just makes them nauseous.

I'm in that state right now, my bored nerves struggling to process this massive tome.

I flipped through a few pages, then closed them again.

Then, I idly counted the lines on the ceiling, which is what I've been doing most these days.

The rest of the time, I'm either sleeping or playing with the bandages on my hands. Pain can sometimes affect my mood, and I mean in a good way.

Miraculously, pain has become a solid link between me and reality, giving me a subjective sense of existence, something I've only recently discovered.

The iron gate rattled.

Lunch arrived duly, this time a hamburger and a Coke.

The burger was fresh from the oven, piping hot, and looked delicious. The packaging looked familiar, like it came from the burger place downstairs from the theater.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the burger and took a bite.

I was waiting.

Every day, Bruce would come in and spend some time with me after lunch, but it usually ended on bad terms. I was too lazy to deal with Bruce's strange questions.

Today was no exception. With a scraping sound of metal, the iron gate opened.

I lowered my head, my gaze glancing at the pair of black boots approaching me. They stopped less than a meter away.

I looked up at him.

His outfit today was once again awful—ugly, old-fashioned, and lacking in taste.

But this time, he wasn't empty-handed. He was carrying a black box, with a chess set on top.

I sat up a little straighter, my eyes fixed on the item in his hand.

"I brought something," he said. "Maybe you'll like it."

"The only thing I like right now is the key to this room," I quipped.

He fell silent, placing the chessboard on the bed. He pointed his chin in the direction of the chessboard and asked,

"Do you want to play?"

I glanced at it, my mouth dropping a few pixels.

"No, I'm not interested."

Bruce set the chessboard aside, his expression unchanged, as if he'd expected this.

Then he opened another box and pulled out a portable projector and a laptop. He set the equipment up and turned the laptop screen towards me.

"I brought some movies, you can choose from them. Maybe you'll like this activity more."

I finally gave in and accepted Bruce's so-called activity—though I personally felt it was more like a prison break.

I chose a classic comedy with a touch of absurdist, dark humor. The film was in black and white, with a strong sense of the period.

As the projector started working, I leaned against the wall and watched the movie, ignoring the people around me.

As I sipped my Coke and watched the film's protagonist's ridiculous antics, my annoyance eased a bit.

About ten minutes later, I suddenly felt a gentle touch on my right hand.

Bruce's fingers touched the bandage, a touch itchy as if a feather had brushed against it.

This was probably the only time in recent days that we'd experienced physical contact without my knowledge.

Uncomfortably, I pulled my hand back a little, and those blue eyes immediately glanced over. He explained,

"I'm checking to see how the wound is healing."

I pulled my hand back slightly, but when I realized I couldn't free it, I gave up and turned back to the projection.

Bruce carefully peeled back the gauze that adhered to my skin. Red immediately seeped through. He frowned, his fingertips resting on the edge of the wound on his palm.

The area should have scabbed over, but now it was bleeding again.

"It didn't break open naturally," he concluded.

The film showed the protagonist performing antics in front of the camera, with exaggerated canned laughter playing in the background.

"Did you do this yourself?"

The pair of blue eyes looked over, inappropriately interrupting my brief good mood.

I remained silent.

He didn't say anything else, but took out the disinfectant, alcohol, cotton pads, gauze, etc. that he had brought with him from the black box, and cleaned the wound on the palm of his hand.

I could feel - there was cloth wrapped around his fingertips, and he re-bandaged the wound.

"Don't do this again," he said lightly, "This is unnecessary harm."

I didn't comment on his point of view, perhaps because I didn't listen to what he said carefully, but focused on this humorous black and white movie.

The protagonist in the film was tap dancing with his lover, and cheerful background music suddenly sounded in the room.

Ironic, isn't it?

We sat side by side and watched the movie in silence.