203

"This upcoming Tuesday is 50 years. Jesus, if only they knew. I think it's about time Thomas says goodnight." The warden was a miserable little man, short in stature and cruel in disposition. His job was the only possible exaltation he would receive in his entire life, which was getting dangerously close to its end. "Get a priest, or something," he muttered toward the sergeant while pacing in little circles about his poorly decorated office. "This sucker needs to die." 203 As usual, the sun rose in the yellowish sky, causing Thomas to breathe an obscene remark. "This damn world was never ready for me," he said in a low tone, "but I've still got time." He had an annoying habit of speaking to himself, which lead to people assuming he was insane. For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been. It was 1953, and the world was less than forgiving toward prison inmates. People saw all prisoners as cold, heartless criminals who deserved nothing less than death. Thomas was different, or so he thought. He was convinced he had a destined appointment for greatness. 3:00 lethargically came with shots & medications, lulling Thomas into his daily nap. Every minute of sleep was an escape for Thomas, allowing him to burst free of the shackles that choked his spirit. Sleep was the closest thing he had to a home. Fifty years can change a man. "Fifty years," Thomas reluctantly admitted to Carl Fisher, the murderer in the neighboring cell. "Can you believe it's been that long?" Carl showed no signs of movement. Instead of responding to the question, he shuddered and said, "I saw a bird today."

 Thomas spared him a lingering glance. Then he turned to his cell window, a barred little number with faint scratches reproducing the image of a dying tree. It was the Yamp Tree, to which Thomas availed himself of a visit at least once a day. The window was freedom, and became lucky when frosted over. Couldn't tell you why. Now, as he grimaced through the distorting layer of glass out onto the brittle yard, he was able to make out the tennis court by the treeline. Some sort of roundish yellow object was lying there on his side of the net. He wasn't so mentally ill that he did not recognize a tennis ball when he saw one. Which is why he was so terribly frightened by its sudden breathing. It was not long before the "ball" began to spring across the dull grass toward the hull of the ward block which housed Thomas, Carl, and, on a fluctuating basis, no more than twelve other "residents." 

 Being of tepid constitution, Thomas staggered back from the window and fell face-forward into his creacking cot. With all his might, he closed his eyes and entered the darkness of his head. This actually became a peacefully prone attitude. There was little ambient noise on the ward, with most of his neighbors tranq'd out of their gourds and the guards on holiday. Five minutes passed, and Thomas had fully forgotten about the apparition beyond the window. But then Carl said,

 "There's that bird again. He's been waiting for a chance to approach the air duct since the sun rose this morning."