A short story, written from a prompt
It’s not the worst bedroom I’ve ever had, probably bigger than my student room. I paid a much higher rent for that one, but this one will come at the ultimate cost. They do share one similarity, however. The moment I was led in here, I knew it had seven walls. Anyone who has lived in a seven-walled room knows one instinctively, without having to count. And none of those dingy, painted cinder-block walls are as long as a bed.
One wall is mostly filled by the weighty metal door, the blocks and plaster cracked and crumbling around the industrial dark-green painted frame. No construction would be able to withstand the repeated slamming which seems to be the guards’ ritual approach. Another wall has a small window, high up, unopenable, but allowing in a shaft of sunlight, illuminating every spec of airborne dust, following the trajectory of tiny draughts and eddies.
I hear the heavy boot-clad footsteps approaching along the corridor, door by door, the slats grating open and slammed closed on each in turn. Another round of checks. When my turn comes, the hatch makes its usual metallic groan. I look through it, in an attempt to engage eyes – a rare glimpse of something human. Instead, I see a manilla envelope thrust through, landing on the floor. I stare down at it for a while, before bending over to pick it up. “Final Meal Request Form Q38b (2006)” At last, my time is near.
How do you choose a final meal? Something familiar, comforting, reminiscent of a past home, perhaps? Or the most opulent and extravagant fare you can imagine? Both options seem somewhat meaningless in the circumstances. It’s not exactly something I’m going to have many opportunities to recall.
What about a meal which would give superpowers, allowing an escape? What if I requested something from far away, which would take months or years to obtain, such as moon cheese? Or one which would turn explosive in digestion, bringing this place down and as many guards as I could take with me. Surely there’s a creative way to use a last meal to get back at the system that has done this to me.
But, being sensible, what would I choose? Having time to think about it makes it more complicated. If I had only five seconds to choose, I’d probably instinctively go for pizza. I used to look forward to arriving home from school on Friday afternoon, a clear weekend stretching out ahead. Dad finished work early on Fridays, he would already be in the kitchen when I came in, the air fragrant with yeast, herbs and garlic from the proving dough and bubbling pan of sauce.
He would always be in a good mood on Friday evening, standing at the counter chopping vegetables and rolling out the bases. Already decompressing after the work week, he would be in no hurry, which only heightened my anticipation, progressing towards impatience. Finally, the pizzas would be in the oven, my mouth would be watering as aromas of mushrooms, meats and sizzling cheese filled the house. This would be when Mum would come home, still flustered from the office. Half a dozen bags would fall from her hands to scatter on the kitchen floor, and she would head upstairs to freshen up. Dinner was served.
Do I really want to be reminded of happy days as my life takes a tragic end. Or will that poignancy just make me sad and full of regret? I don’t want to end feeling desperate, helpless, although that is of course what I am. If only there was a way to regain a sense of agency and control in my final hours. It’s then a phrase hits me from something I read years ago: “My weakness is my strength.”
Of course! I can take control. I write something I’ve never eaten before, and for good reason: “Shellfish Satay”. I will be the one to decide the timing and manner of my departure.
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