I sit in my cell. I stare at the bare wall facing me, and count the bricks. I already know how many there are, as I have counted them many times before. There are eight hundred and sixty six bricks in the wall I am facing. If I turn ninety degrees to the right, that wall has seven hundred and fifty two. The wall is roughly the same size, but there are fewer bricks, because of the door. The wall directly opposite this one, the one I'm leaning against, has two fewer bricks. I don't often count those, because it entails pulling out my bed. In the early days, I counted them, along with the others, but now I hardly ever bother with it. I have never been able to count the bricks in the fourth wall, the one to my left, because it is plastered smooth. I could, I suppose, visualise the bricks behind the plastering, but I decided it would take too much concentration, and it is too difficult to concentrate in here.

Just why I have to count the bricks, I have never known. It's something to do, I suppose. It focuses my mind, and turns it away from my anger. Do you know why I'm so angry? Well, that's easy. I shouldn't be here. I should never have been here. If I didn't count the bricks every day, I would have to think about the one who should be here in my stead.

Do you want to know how I got to be here? Very well, I'll tell you. It's not a pretty story, but it's an old one...

The End

8 comments about this story Feed