Light (prose)

With a tinkle and a buzz the naked lightbulb is flickering to life. While it is warming up and gaining in golden brightness, the chamber is gradually becoming more real. The whitewash is still actually white, but it has black and brown spots where the walls, ceiling, and floor are slightly damaged. Small and large chunks chipped off of them over the decades make the time it has endured obvious. These dark holes relieve the light and drain the cell’s brilliance somehow, make it less present. It is easier to miss the fact that it has no windows.
“You’ve become old.”
My young friend’s voice sounds both awed and hateful as he mutters this into the room.
I eye the lightbulb and follow the cables across the ceiling and down the wall to the switch. I lean back against the wall and look at the boy’s back. He’s not moving.
Save for the lamp, and a shapeless bundle of reeking rags in the corner he’s facing, the cell is empty. And except for us both, of course. I knock on the heavy steel door.
He whips around and squints at it.
“This looks pretty solid. And it has a good lock. How did you escape?”
His eyes go out of focus and he frowns.
“I don’t remember.”
I nod slowly.
I hate doing this.
Old people are easy. Even children are easy. Accidents are okay, illnesses can be annoying, but stories like this get to me. I have to swallow a few times before I can ask him more. It is important to always appear calm to them.
“For how long have you been out now?”
“Um ... about ...” His eyes are darting everywhere and he starts chewing on his tongue. “Erm. ... I don’t remember, okay?!” He’s rubbing his head and staring into space with a slightly panicked expression.
“Please try to. It won’t let you go before you do.”
The hinges creak, and with a pained, polyphonic squeal, the heavy metal door swings shut, and the loud rusty bang makes him jump and look up in panic. His horror-stricken face then is drowned in black as the light is dimming and going out silently.
“Turn it back on! Turn on the light! Where’s the switch?! Where’s the switch, why isn’t it there, help me find it, the light!” He’s frantically groping and scratching at the walls in the dark. This is ugly business. With a hand on his shoulder, I turn him around and nudge him toward the corner with the silent heap of stinking cloth resting in it.
“There,” I say.
“What?” He approaches it blindly and uncertainly until his feet connect with it and it sags a little. It rustles softly, and with a crumble, his head lolls to one side, his large tongueless mouth with the dried puckered lips gaping up at me.
“How did you escape?”
He stares at me.
“You fell asleep.”