Fear of the dark | Ediz. Inglese

🌹 chapter one

I was awake. Quite satisfied with the night, I tried not to move much, thus avoiding making the bed creak, but I found the urge to turn away.
I did not open my eyes, it would have been useless; I would have seen again the place where I was resting. The walls were constantly cold, black and covered with cracks and cobwebs. The small window almost touched the ceiling and the iron door was rusted.
But I paid no attention to the unpleasant smell of shut-in and mould: after two long years, my nose had stopped itching.
I let out a faint groan as soon as I heard the amphibians of a guard crossing the corridor, which was dark despite the fact that it was already morning.
He approached and, when he struck his truncheon on the bars that divided us, I opened my eyes.
«Larson, get your ass out of that bed!» he said in an aggressive tone. He snapped the key in the lock and, striking iron again, walked away.
I stared at the wall for a while longer. Every time I was in that position it was like being inside a deep well.
I folded the woollen blanket and left it at the foot of the bed. I rested my elbows on the pillow and surveyed the room: dust covered some old books and letters scattered on the wooden table, which was also worn.
I put my black boots on my feet and opened the cell.
Now it was my boots that thundered in that corridor, whose walls were occupied by other cells, identical to mine.
One of them opened and Brandon reached me:
«Hey bro', good morning.»
He did this every morning: he left his cell and joined me to the mess hall.
«Did you hear that tonight? They must have blacked out the new one» he informed me, looking around. He hoped, perhaps, that no one would hear him.
I was reminded of that pain and the screams at every whipping on the very night I was deported to this prison.
«Silent this morning?» He hit me with a shoulder strike.
I stood with my hands in my pockets, my eyes on the black skin and my mouth closed.
«Come on, say something, man!»
I merely reached for the door and pushed it away.

We entered the canteen and I took my place at the usual round table. Brandon next to me.
«What are you ordering this morning? Bacon? My treat.» The ironic tone made me turn to him and I let my eyes narrow. I rested my arms on the dirty table from the previous dinner.
«Piss off, Brad, I don't feel like talking!» I growled seriously. I threw all my weight on the wooden backboard, stretched my legs under the table and intertwined them. Shortly after, I did the same with my arms, crossing them over my chest.
The cafeteria began to crowd with other inmates: white men, black men, tall men, short men... it didn't matter; in there we were all the same, or almost the same, wearing orange jumpsuits.