30x300 by -yannik-
DAY EIGHT
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The padd lay on the table, waiting.
The floor of the cell was waiting too – to be measured up all over again.
The cloths were waiting for him to change them from his night stuff.
Even his beard was waiting. To be shaved.
And he was waiting.
For a better time to do it all.
Was he waiting for anything specific?he wondered. Like… the end of those thirty… No! That's too much to count! For tomorrow… No, even that is too far away… Today… What's there to wait for?
Neelix.
Tom was waiting for Neelix.
He got up, changed his outfit, shaved, and took the padd.
"Yes, dad, I'm still here. Where was I…" The story flew smoothly, memories of the ball of an open ocean in an open space were filling his mind, pictures floating before his closed eyes. He felt like being there again. And he felt no regret. Oh, maybe a small one, that it was all for nothing. Nothing changed, nothing helped.
Chime. Who's there?
Oh, that's Neelix!
Tom got up, ready to greet his best friend, the only friend he had in fact.
But…
Chomsky took the tray from the astounded cook, and told him to leave the brig. Desperate orange eyes met the terrified blue ones, and that was all the contact for the day. The guard opened the forcefield, put the tray in, and closed it again.
Solitary confinement.
No nonessential conversations.
The food was waiting for Tom to eat it, until it got completely cold, and uneatable.
But Tom only watched the walls, wondering if there was anything interesting on a wall of a brig cell. Anything to keep your mind occupied. Anything to… But the walls were dull and silent…
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t.b.c.