Mr. Smith

This is Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith is sitting in a room.

Mr. Smith is sitting in a brown leather chair in a white coloured room. Besides the chair there’s nothing much else. Nothing else to be precise. A cold concrete floor. Mr. Smith’s not wearing any shoes. Mr. Smith’s not wearing much to be honest. Underwear, whites. Nothing else.

The white of the wall is offset by a steel slate door and a two by four mirror. The door is closed. It hasn’t opened in days, Mr. Smith’s not sure it ever will again. He tried opening it once. It didn’t budge. Not an inch. He tried banging it with his fists, screaming at it, kicking it, ran towards it and almost dislocated his shoulder. Nothing happened. Nothing moved. No sounds he heard except his own laboured breathing. At this point he wasn’t even sure there was an other side. Maybe it didn’t open because there was nothing for it to open into? The face he saw in the mirror had grown haggard. He didn’t remember ever looking like this. The black under his eyes, his worn and aging body. When had he become this?

Mr. Smith no longer looks in the mirror.

He’d moved the chair so it no longer faced it. It didn’t matter much, it kept on calling. Every minute a little louder. How long had it been since he’d spoken to anyone? At least the man in the mirror answered him, in a fashion. Right or wrong of no importance. If only his reflection wasn’t so off-putting. Nothing to be done about that but stop looking. Mr.  Smith ‘d stopped looking days ago.

Next to the leather chair Mr. Smith had gathered the last remaining bottle of water. There had been twelve, there was now only half a bottle left. Food merely a distant memory.

Mr. Smith downs the last remaining water. Two hours and he’ll have to relieve himself. There’s a corner in the room he’s been using for just that.

Mr. Smith’s decided to have a lie down in the opposite corner.  Mr. Smith’s decided to have a lie down in the opposite corner of the white coloured room with the brown leather chair in it.

This is Mr. Smith.