Prison Dreams
by Fred Warren
Davis hit the floor of the cell face-first, dirt and cement grit grinding into his teeth and mingling with the blood that oozed from between his lips. The guards slammed the door shut behind him with an authoritative clang, and Davis could hear their footsteps echoing along the corridor outside in a dwindling staccato counterpoint to their laughter.
The cell was dim and bare. Two thin blankets, one occupied, on the floor; a steel commode and sink in the corner; light struggling in a thin ray through a tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. It stank. Davis picked himself up and wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.
“Heya, fresh fish. Welcome to the Plaza.” The man on the blanket was scrawny, bushy grey hair tangled about his wrinkled face. He propped himself up on an elbow, inspecting Davis with a rusty, gap-toothed smile.
“Hello yourself,” Davis replied. “You got a name?”
“Nobody has a name here.”
“I’m Davis Trent.”
“Whatever you say. Doesn’t really matter. A month from now, you won’t remember it.”
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