Ben McKay sat and eyed his surroundings, his face dispassionate. His pale eyes full of mild contempt. Swiveling his eyeballs, he took in the foul, unwashed white walls which exuded dark, dark shadows at night. Slithering where the light dares not, and concealing the inmates ranging from the homicidal to the pathologically ill beyond one's cell bars. He, like many others he was sure, had experienced that fear and uneasiness instilled in their heart and minds when the blackness malevolently hid these criminals, and in some other cases, creatures in orange jumpsuits with empty, sick minds from human sight. In the day however, all he and his fellow inmates could see were always the same dirty white corridors, and always the dull, repetitive, gray cell bars lining them. A veritable prison. With colors so contrasting to his favourite, blue. Like the blue shining outside the small barred window in the wall.
Sitting in the cafeteria, Ben thought that it wasn't just the sights that were repugnant, it was the smell too, as well as the company. The stench was repulsive, sometimes smelling of something long deceased cooked up in a poor imitation of food. He missed the aroma of delicious food. And the delights of agreeable company. Not these faces that even a mother could not love, and heavily scarred and tattooed bodies. The inmate cohort. Ben continued to sit there. He ate his tray full of prison food.
It was only a little while later when he looked up again. Ben looked at the criminals and looked at their packs, grunting and baring teeth at each other. Animals. Their sounds were primitive and gruff, a constant backdrop in the scene. He felt remote from them, for he liked to think he was better than them, however slightly, above their animalistic nature. Like the petty fights ending in violent bloodbaths staining the cement floor. There was one to his right, an earthy brownish red from a recent stabbing of a butter knife in a criminal eye. How, he wondered, must have that felt like? A utensil being driven violently into your iris, and the pain... Rushing down the corridors tinged with the seeping red at the corners of your eye, passing the barring cell doors... Ben quickly shook his head, his thoughts getting a bit too morbid. But then, who would not have morbid thoughts in this morbid place? Half smiling wryly at his train of thought, he quickly stopped. The constant companion of sound had ceased. In the silence of the cafeteria Ben sought the reason for the rare quiet... and there it was, a small body encased in a horridly orange jumpsuit surrounded by jail guards.
They watched. The inmate cohort and Ben, as the guards left the figure, resuming their positions of bored watchfulness in the corners of the cafeteria. The newcomer looked left and right, his actions twitchy and obviously uneasy, and abruptly scuttled toward the food. A disconcerting quiet followed him. Tray full, he skimmed his pale blue eyes over the tables and occupying persons. He headed over to Ben, the plain Jane with nondescript brown eyes and hair, sitting by his lone self. The newcomer's feet made these quick and hurried sounds against the floor. Arriving he clattered his tray and self down on the seat ungainly and unsettled. Ben took in his features, the pale orange hair, woman like hands, delicate face, and cadaverous skin. He looked uncomfortable at his scrutiny, and body quaking slightly, averted eye contact.
"Stop that," he said, and Ben, surprised at his quiet defiance, stopped. If only to stare at him.
"My name's Vincent," he continued after the silence, and when Ben remained silent, he started again.
"What's yours?" Vincent asked, voice quavering, his courage from earlier gone. Ben sat, contemplating the young man in front of him, his face looked like he just turned sixteen, but here he was, at least 18, and on the verge of babbling from fear.
"Ben," Ben answered. Cool and distant. Replying after deciding that there was no harm telling this boy, his answer passed on a blunt message of disinterest to continue talking. Vincent did not ask anymore questions or attempt to converse with Ben. When the shrill sound rang from the speakers indicating lunch was over, Ben left without a second glance. But not before he thought again of how Vincent's skin resembled a reanimated corpse's, whitish like the newly dead.
