The Room

He sat in the small room.  He was cold, he was wet, and he was miserable.  He stared vacantly at the bare white-washed walls, reflecting the nothingness laying stagnant in his otherwise brilliantly blue eyes.  The man was sitting on an old spring bed; its rusted metal frame, rough faded white sheets, and worn feather pillow exuding the aura of tiresome apathy.  He was tall, six-foot-four with long, fine blonde hair parted down the middle.  He had long, skinny arms and legs, so pale they almost give off the illusion of illness, or as if he had just been through an encounter with a band of cannibals or a doctor’s syringe.  So white, one could always see the deep blue arteries just below the surface of his skin.  He never had a tan, and he could never figure out why.  He wore dark-blue cover-alls.  They were his father’s, who used to work at a small-town car-repair shop.  The only thing written on them was his father’s name, now just an unreadable tattered bulk of white thread, and his employee number.  There wasn’t even the name of the shop…what was it?  He couldn’t even remember.  Dad would kill him for that.  His already sullen mood furthered.  He pictured a shiny Smith & Wesson revolver.
Why?  Then he knew.  His head hung.  He had almost succeeded in blocking the entire event from his being.  Obviously not.  He pressed his palms to his eyes, and attempted to stop the memory.  But to no avail.  The horrid recollection came flooding back, and he went into a deep trance, a Cobra hypnotized by the charmers flute.

         She stood alone, a sole weary life within the sole weary split-level.  She was going to a dinner-party that night, so she had on her best clothes; a long red dress with sparkles so they glittered intensely from every hint of light.  She had left the faded blue front door, with chips of its former red showing, open that day.  Had she kept it closed, as she usually did, her life might have been spared as it creaked open.  But it was open that day because of the bright blue skies with not a cloud in sight.  She was cooking dinner for her three children, so all of her attention was focused on the bubbling soup pot.  She didn’t even hear the intruder creep through the house until it was far too late.  When she heard the pistol cock, she had just enough time to spin around and see the man dressed in blue jeans and a blue denim jacket.  He was holding the shiny Smith & Wesson to her head.  She didn’t even have time to scream, but her expression was one of confused fear, yet resolved recognition and resignation.  The man fired off six rounds point-blank into her face.  She died instantly.

Suddenly, he snapped out of it, like a turtle snaps at a wriggling finger by its mouth.  Unenthusiastically, he glanced up at the old round clock, the wall’s only decoration, and turned on the TV.  He settled on a Springsteen special, and began to mindlessly sing along, "41 shots and we’ll take that ride ‘cross this bloody river to the other side.  41 shots got my boots caked in this mud.  We’re baptized in these waters and in each others blood."  As the show ended, he looked back up at the clock.  Slowly, he pushed himself off the bed, and staggered to the class-room.  Only half his attention was on the professor’s monotone lecture.  The other half was looking out the window at the rolling fields of green, and true blue skies.  It was a day just like when his mother was murdered.  The professor asked a question, and he raised his hand.

***

         Outside the thick steel door, two men in blue uniforms were watching the man with his hand in the air.
"Poor guy," one of them said somberly, "He doesn’t even know he’s in jail."
"I know," replied the other, shaking his head, "Why’s he here?"
"It was fifty years ago.  Admitted to murdering his own mother.  Put six bullets in her skull."
"Oh," is all the guard uttered as he pressed the red button to open the cell door, "Time for the crazy old fool to eat.