small slit window

I wake up and stare at the bland ceiling, not moving for a while. I don't know how long I was sitting there, there are no clocks in here. No clocks, no posters, no windows, save for the small, barred slit in the top of the wall. I don't think that really counts as a window, though. 

I sigh and push the thin gray blanket off me but I lose momentum and don't get up. I just lay there and let the cool air make my hairs stand on end. 

I've been here for about a year. Maybe a bit more. After a while I stopped trying to convince them it wasn't me who did it. After a while my  family stopped calling. After a while friends stopped visiting. After a while I stopped counting the days, they’re all the same anyways, bland food and so many people wearing the same colorless clothes. 

I pull my limp body out of bed, not a single thought in my head. I stretch and yawn and then drag my bed slowly over to the side of the room and stand on it. I press my head against the bare walls next to the window despite the cold stone and take a big deep breath of the fresh morning air through the small slit. A little bit of sun sneaks through and brushes my face with momentary warmth. I'm glad I got a room with a ‘window’.  There is not much else to be glad for. The first few weeks I talked to some of the other protected custody prisoners. They said there were only a few rooms with windows. I feel my mood droop even farther at this thought. The other prisoners don't talk to me anymore. Why they would beats me, i'm the exact same as everyone else here, same buzzed hair, same smelly clothes, same schedule, same lies about life before prison. 

I step down from the window and look around the room, it has a small toilet in the corner and the bed I just stepped off. There is a metal door that leads into the hall.

Sometimes I think my life ended when I came here, not gone really but paused. It paused and left me frozen on the screen. If i'm thinking wishfully maybe it passed when i looked good instead of in the middle of a sneeze or something. 

One of the guards comes and opens the door.

“Breakfast.” he says and walks away to wake the others. I take one long look at the window and stumble after the guard. 

Breakfast is always a time for contemplating, I look around the room and listen to others talking. It always seems like this environment did not break everyone else as much as it did me. I recognise that I've broken, I've crumbled from my original self. The self i was before this happened 

I think about people, any people really, I think of what they could be doing right now. Walking to a coffee shop to meet someone or making breakfast for their loved ones Or maybe sleeping in with a dog curled up by their side. 

I stare down at my plate of flavorless oatmeal and sigh.