It was the same music he had heard yesterday that woke him up. It was a hauntingly familiar tune, something that he felt he had heard his whole life, but he couldn't put a name to it. That was not surprising, though. He couldn't even remember his own name, or anything that had happened in his life. His mind was a blank slate aside from the fact that he could speak English, and that he remembered certain random trivia and bits of writing.
For example, he remembered this small piece of poetry:
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted and each wish resign'd.
He didn't know whom it was by, but he did know that it gave him some strength during his imprisonment. At least, he believed he was a prisoner, but all he really knew was that he was in a room that he could not get out of, and that he was starting to die of thirst.
He looked around the cell once more. There was a yellow glow of the one bulb at the center of the high ceiling, but it was not enough to light up the whole place. The stench of his own defecation was starting to choke him up.
Then there was the compactness of the cell. It was a box with no opening. No windows or doors. Absolutely nothing. He didn't think he was claustrophobic, but he couldn't stand this.
He could ignore all of that, though. The darkness, the stench, the hunger, all of it. He didn't care. All he wanted at the moment was a glass of water.
Then there was the bed. It was a very nice bed, surprisingly large and soft, and that was why he hated it. When he had woken up on the bed for the first time, having no idea who he was or what he was doing there, it had given him optimism. No prisoner would have a bed like that. Someone had brought him there for safekeeping, and as soon as they could, would get him out of there.
But nobody came, and bit by bit, the optimism had given way to negativity. And he hated the bed for sparking his optimism in the first place. Why give him hope, only to have it slowly and painfully extracted out of him? Since then, he had been sleeping on the floor. It hurt his back, but it would have to do. He was not going to sleep on the bed. It had betrayed him.
Now, waking up, he decided to take off his shirt. He'd been wearing a white shirt and jeans when he first woke up, and as it turned out, he needed them. The cell seemed to have no constant temperature. It was searingly hot half the time, and the other half, his clothes barely managed to keep him from catching frostbite. He couldn't make sense of it, but he had decided that the 'hot time' was day and the 'cold time' was night. He had no other way of telling the time.
He looked at the wall in front of him. It was blue. That was his favorite color.
He smiled. He remembered something about himself. Blue was his favorite color. Not that it mattered much now. Soon, he would be dead. He gave himself one more day. It was surprising to him that he had managed to survive as long as he had, but he knew now that the time was coming fast. His throat was scorching, demanding more water.
There was nothing he could do for it. Nothing but wait for the inevitable end.
In the distance, the music continued to dance through the air.