Reminiscent

The days inside the prison were pretty much the same.

Mathew could see the moment the sun rose by the small square projected on the wall outside his cell. He could watch its whole trajectory until almost noon. After that, the day only went darker until, finally, nothing could be seen. Some days there was a moon, and Mathew would also watch its trajectory. There was nothing better to do.

On days with no moon, nights were a nightmare of people screaming and crying in the dark. Some of them had the worst hallucinations. A few of them killed themselves.

A prisoner with no name tore his own eyes off and died of blood loss and infection. Those were the worst days, when the man and the other prisoners found out that removing their eyes wouldn't stop the hallucinations. Mathew shivered when he remembered it. And it was hard not to. The body was still rotting on the floor right next to his cell.

Two weeks ago, they still had the nocturnal and emergency lights to keep the nightmares at bay. But that was two weeks before. Since then, the nights have been dark, and the terrors roamed free.

A few days earlier, three, to be more precise - Mathew counted - there was still food. Then, less and less each passing day. Now, not a crumb.

Mathew noticed the portions were getting smaller and decided it was time to eat less, so he could store some food in case there was a shortage. His days of being poor taught him a thing or two about starvation. The body can't take many days deprived of food. It can take even less without water.

And since no one came to give them water either, Mathew started peeing on the corner of his cell, so he could drink from the toilet. There was a very limited amount of water there, so Mathew rationed. A few sips a day only. Just to prevent him from dying.

When it rained, Mathew could throw his shirt out of the cell window and twist it inside the toilet to save water for later. Mathew figured it had been two weeks since he started doing it. And four days since the last rain. His water stock was running hopelessly low.

He could also feel his stomach protest. Not for the lack of food or water. He remembered those feelings well. However, the state of the food he still had and the water he drank, weren't good. He knew that, but still, Mathew couldn't help but survive. Like he always did since his long gone days in the gutters.

On a good day, Mathew would remember his home. The one he went to live in after Libby "adopted" him. Sometimes he could laugh at the idea. Adopted at 30 years old. Libby was an old woman. Not much to lose. Not much to gain either. She adopted him and many other homeless brothers and sisters.

Because of her, Mathew could join a government-funded technical school, which then led him to a job at a local cloth factory. It was about that time that one of Libby's adoptees, a junkie from the streets, stabbed her over a few coppers to buy crack. Mathew could remember crying over her coffin and promising to live a model life. He could not cry now. Water was scarce.

Mathew had a wife and a son after that. Joanne. If you look at her photographs, you won't find her pretty, but it was the most beautiful thing to Mathew's eyes. They had John. The cutest kid Mathew could hope for. He adored the kid. Wanted him to have everything Mathew couldn't. So the man worked twice as hard at the factory.

Hard work usually blinds a man to what matters, Mathew realized too late. He didn't see his son grow into a junkie himself. He was furious when he found out. Almost beat his own son to death. Filled with guilt, Mathew drowned himself in work once again.

He was so tired, he never noticed the signs. But did John give any? He loved his mother, didn't he? He would always say how his mother was the one who raised him and was there for him when he wanted to offend Mathew. And it usually did. The truth hurts.

So how could he have killed her? With a gun at that? It's too cruel. Mathew could have understood a stabbing, like the one Libby suffered. Abstinence can lead a junkie into a blind fury. But a gunshot? Where the hell did John find a gun? Mathew didn't own one. And surely not Joanne as far as he knew.

Nevertheless, Mathew was in a cell. Arrested for murdering his own wife. He knew this day would come. Bailing John out of the police district too many times before taught him that. One day the kid was going to go too far. Mathew knew but decided not to pay attention to that feeling. His street smarts were leaving him. Or maybe he was just suppressing them out of cowardice.

When the cops didn't find John but found Mathew going back home, their minds had been already made up. A former bum had turned to drugs and murdered his wife. Typical case.

Mathew was ruminating those thoughts like he usually did every single day, when the door to the prison cell chambers opened. Slowly. The air went still for a moment. Not a sound to be heard. Not even the sporadic moaning of the inmates about to die.

Then a step.

And another one.

Mathew looked and the square the sun painted on the wall in front of him. He looked at both sides, but couldn't see who was coming in after so many days. Was he hallucinating himself? That was probable.

- Mathew Dresser. - said a deep and low voice. Familiar.

Mathew tried to talk, but the sound he made was just like scratching a rock. He could see the shadow in front of his cell. The clanks told him the shadow was unlocking it. The sun, lighting its boots. Black worn-out combat boots if he ever saw some.

The cell opened and the shadow came in and kneeled in front of him. That face was more than Mathew could handle.

It wasn't John, but somehow it was. He wasn't a mess like Mathew remembered. His eyes were dark and sunk into his skull, but his hair was better. Mathew touched it. John's face was older. Much older, but healthy and tanned like he's been on the beach every day since his mother's murder. Mathew saw scars and touched them. He felt his own hands wet under the warmth of his son's skin.

Mathew felt John's face muscles contract.

He was smiling.

- Hey, dad. - Mathew heard and burst into tears, holding his son in a hug.

John could feel Mathew shaking uncontrollably. It was time to take him out of there. John lifted his father like he was a child. And walked out of the cell.

Mathew could feel his own face against the rough vest. Too much metal there. He could hear the familiar clink of guns as his son walked him out of there.

Mathew tried to talk again in order to understand, but his throat was too dry.

- It's okay, dad. It's gonna be fine. - John replied caringly.

When they left through the door, light stung Mathew's eyes in waves of pain. Unable to focus on what was in front of his eyes, all he could make out were figures moving around. He heard an engine working.

- Captain, we have to move. The Agency HQ has made contact. They're waiting at the rendezvous. - Mathew heard a voice.

- Gather everyone, we're leaving ASAP. - Mathew heard his son shout to the man. A voice of command. A voice he never heard.

- Come on, guys! We have a war to win! - shouted the first man.

- It's okay now, dad. - whispered John to his father - I'm gonna take care of you. Like mamma did.