The paper cups really piled up. As Bob was the only one currently residing in this cell, there was no one to complain about the mess. Most of the convicts weren't that hygienic anyway, but Bob would probably get in trouble during tomorrow morning's daily cell inspection. At the moment, Bob didn't care. If he couldn't fill his empty soul, he could fill his empty stomach.
It was rare for Bob to have the cell to himself. Springfield's crime rate was among the highest in America, so prisoners would sometimes be packed in cells to the point where there was no room to sit. Bob couldn't appreciate the leg room right now. There were many things that Bob failed to appreciate while he had them.
Bob found himself missing Cecil. He recalled that as boys, they'd spent an entire summer vacation writing their own endings to Charles Dickens' unfinished novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Then, the brothers argued about which ending was better. Bob also found himself missing Anna, and the Scrabble he'd played with her once in a while. She'd been a worthy opponent.
There really wasn't much to stimulate Bob's intellect in prison; there were only a few books in the tiny library, all heavily censored.
Bob found himself empathizing with whales in tiny, sterile tanks with only a few toys, and surrounded by other whales who kept hurting each other and spoke in different languages. This may have had something to do with the killer whale DNA he'd given himself. His father probably would have called him an idiot for mutating himself and also for removing his face, the stitches for which still felt loose. The elder Robert loathed people who messed their bodies up on purpose.
Francesca likely would have called Bob an idiot too, among other things. She had quite the colourful vocabulary, and Bob had worried that she'd pass it down to Gino. There was still a scar on Bob's finger from when his teething son had grabbed it and bit it.
Now they were all gone from Bob's life, with little left of them but memories and that scar.
Bob woozily picked up a dart and tossed it at his picture of Bart. It missed, but Bob would try again. He had to, or he'd be nothing but an empty shell.