[Center]Lanes...[/center]

Rising, Jasper's arms flexed chords of sinew and muscle under their taught flesh, a push-up in the exertion which the repetition had stolen all meaning from the act, the count left irrelevant. This has become his life, his meditation, respiration and methodical pace in the flexing and flow of blood to meet the demands of hungry musculature. Perhaps it was another layer of spite, the top torn from their prison jumpsuit to leave them with only the legs and the fabric from the seams of the former top in order to sinch it into place with a messy temporary knot. Glazed and rippling, their muscles rolled through their back with every repetition while their eyes remained locked on the door of his cell.
Today may not be the day, nor was yesterday or the weeks before it, and any promises of the tomorrows' whispered from yesterdays past would fall to a grace found only in the marks next to the untouched bed.

'Untouched' was an inaccurate description, the impression on the thin sheetless pad that served as a mattress hinted to a frequented kneeling-spot for the saint...or...at least that was how Jasper would see himself. A martyr, even, having moved the pieces for the check to be called, some time by those whose presence would leave more of an impact than the old footprints in an overgrown grove, once upon a time.
Easing themselves to kneel, he ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back and resting his palms on his thighs. It felt like ages since the door had been opened in earnest, the meager slot and the shelf upon it for which goods and nutrients had ceased falling to the floor, as none of the staff retained the stomach to come in and clean the mess that was left.

No brave souls.

A single overturned plate sitting atop a putrid black mass of what had been freeze-dried meatloaf, a year ago. Reheated and unfurled, sallow after the first week and disgusting litter within days of it having spilled haphazardly by the door. In return, the door's edges had accumulated rust from algae and lichens pushing waste liquids against it for years, a blatant defiance that threatened to melt down the very metal, given a few decades of such aggressive rot. The receiving port which such goods had been delivered through had since been welded shut from the outside to contain the maladies; festering molds still managing to creep around and past the seals. From the outside, the door to the cell was a horrific warning, appearing almost ancient in comparison to the rest of the block.

With all hope, the door would bind, the rust would expand, and the door would open, no more.

[color=gray]Cells.
Within cells, interlinked.
This cancer was the last and finest of my works, a threat to any who would pity and question the reason of containment.[/color]

"What's behind that door?" [color=gray]I would hear a naive voice, long ago, and a haggard voice simply replied,[/color] "Doom."
[color=gray]I only knew they spoke of my fate with the light yet hollow rapping on the door with the knuckle of a finger. It felt like an eternity ago, but that single act of contact renewed my soul. Meek and disjointed as it may have been, the simple acknowledgement was enough to pull me from my trance. No words were heard, since.

For a moment, I was alive, once more.
Then it was gone...countless repetitions ago...[/color]

Holding themselves up during their recollection, Jasper then sighed and lowered themselves, again, to continue their endless push-ups...a song teasing across their lips. To him, every time, it was a symphony of voices.

[youtube]https://youtu.be/8IKot4YXad8[/youtube]

______________________________________________

The outside of Jasper's cell was marked with a collection of 'X's drawn by sharpies where the mold hadn't leeched through the seams, and under places were the fetor consumed. The window had long since been painted over and it was anyone's guess what transpired, within.