Good Morning
Cold... He was cold. The candle's low flame in the small room provided little comfort. Even when he put his hands up to it. It was as though the fire, itself, was artificial. The breath coming from his mouth didn't fog. Maybe he wasn't cold. Maybe just not that cold. He shifted his weight on the uncomfortable little cot, the protest from the springs breaking the silence.
Where am I? He thought. There were some other questions that came to mind, but none of them seemed important. Even the previous thought no longer carried weight.
The numb vibrating in his joints was possibly the only feeling he had, apart from the cold. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it. The whoosh that followed wasn't as comforting as he had expected. Sure... He could breath, but was that important?
With a great effort, he pushed himself up from the cot and looked around the small room. Not much to see, really. Bookshelves took up the other half of the room. Four of them. Then there was the small table, atop which was the candle. And the cot. The walls were paneled with a wood like pattern. The only other important part of the room was the door.
The door looked simple enough, but the anxiety it caused him when he looked at it spoke of something ... sinister. He stared for a long time. His eyes started to water. The burning was enough to cause him to blink. The pain and tears subsided; he rubbed them to help.
Vision clear once more, he saw something he hadn't at first. A small metal tray, segmented into little compartments. Food. Someone had put food in the room for him. Was it for him? Almost unconsciously, he looked around the room. Of course. There was no one else for whom it could have been. Not hungry, he sat back on the cot, listening to the delightful cacophony of spring music as he did.
The questions came back as he entered a relaxed state. Where am I? How did I get here? Why? No answers were forth coming. He sighed loudly. It was practically as loud as a hurricane, such was the power of the silence.
***
Had it been an hour? A day? It was impossible to tell. There was no distant sound of a rooster, no clock, nothing. The only sounds came from him. Especially of note, was the groan from his stomach. The simple sandwich and yellowish goop on the tray were starting to look irresistible. Finally, he succumbed. He stood up from the cot and took the one step needed to get the tray. One more look; one more moment to negotiate the wisdom of eating something when he didn't know where, or who, it had come from. Then he bent and lifted the try. The smell that wafted from the stale bread and meat caused him to drool. With one final shrug, he took the tray back to the cot and ate the food.
Thoughts of poison, malevolent tampering, or even just an allergy niggled at the back of his mind. He ignored these. The need to eat overriding them. The food was rough, but welcomed. It was just an old ham sandwich and creamed corn with a heavy emphasis on the 'cream.' His body ached in relief as the food settled into his stomach. How long had it been since he last ate? That was as impossible to tell as the current time. He placed the empty tray and accompanying plastic spoon on the table.
There must be something he could do. He stood up from the cot and stepped up to the door again. It was a fairly standard, if archaic, door. Definitely fashioned after old world construction. Heavy planks of wood held together by plates of iron bolted across them. The only thing it was lacking was a knob. The area where it should have been was a nothing but a blank plate of iron. He leaned his ear against the door.
