The Laborer watched silently as the old man tried to escape his chains. A futile attempt. 
“Gotta die someday.” He said, sitting as comfortably as the chains would allow to watch the old man’s further attempts to break his bonds. “May as well be here.”
His hands were shaky. He told himself it was fear; it was more likely alcohol withdrawal. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank. He couldn’t remember much of anything at all. Shouldn’t that concern him?

He [i]could[/i] remember the act that he surmised lead to this predicament; he cursed that that particular memory remained fresh and verdant when even his own name escaped him. 

He lifted a hand to wipe the blood from where it was beginning to trickle past his brow and into his eye; with no towels or tissues or anything except the filthy floors and walls and his fellow prisoners, he opted to wipe his palm on his trousers. In doing so, he brushed his hands over some unexpected items in his pocket; cigarettes and a lighter. Immediately he lifted one of both to his mouth, lighting up and taking a long, smooth drag. The weight of the lighter felt good in his hands and the smoke of the cigarette felt good in his lungs. He pocketed the lighter again, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth while he puffed on it. 

His fingers began walking the edge of the carpeting, looking for a hold. Maybe they could tear the whole thing up. Use it as…something. Fuel? Blanketing? He couldn’t tell what time it was, but it might get cold later. Hell, tearing up carpet would at be something to do, rather than tug fruitlessly at chains. Even if the old man broke his, then what? 

The lightbulb hummed steadily away above them, an arbiter of timelessness. 

>Explore