The fly buzzed like a pager that had somehow grown wings, making soft tink-tink-tink sounds as it rebounded from the dirty dome light. More flies, smaller, baby flies, grandbaby flies, swarmed over the crusted remnants of his last meal. Another flimsy aluminum tray would be shoved through the slot in the door soon. Maybe. Maybe not. It was hard to tell time.
He huddled in the corner, plucking at his rags. He tried to remember anything before the cell. He remembered the sudden light, waking up. Fear; panic. Pain. The bruises were fading.
He tried to remember home.
You need to be logged in to comment