Jefferson's Room: A Narrative Fiction

“I understand, Jefferson. Being locked up in here. Ridiculed. Watched. Judged.” I sat facing the wall. My feet sat uncomfortably atop the concrete floor. My eyes wanted to close, but my mind wouldn't let them. Subconsciously, I believed that falling asleep made this place appear comfortable, and I was not going to provide it that luxury.

It was dark. It was always dark, and dreary, and lifeless. One bit of sunlight journeyed into the room from the window, but it never made it very far. Jefferson sat on the bed, staring at the one drop of light. He rarely blinked and made little motion, but his breathing was prominent. Every breath arched his back and convexed his spine. He grew taller with every inhale, and shorter with every exhale. His
I was so amazed at our conversation to I just needed to tell my girlfriend, Vivian. You ever been to the Rainbow Club?” I interjected.

He nodded.

“Okay, good. Once I walked in and saw she wasn’t there, I decided to sit down at the bar and order a few drinks while I wait. A couple bricklayers were sitting next to me, talking really loud and being rambunctious. I keep catching words of what they’re hearing and I’m trying to figure about whom they’re speaking. After a few more moments listening, I realize who they’re talking about.” I pause for a moment. “It was you, Jefferson.”

“What did they say?” He spoke in a monotone voice, making it sound more like a command than a question.

“They were talking about how you don’t deserve to live, and that you’re a bad man, and eventually I could not hold my anger in. I had just come back from talking to you, and seeing how much of a man you are, and they were saying that you were nothing. I couldn’t let them say that about you, so I hit them. And now I’m here.” I smiled. The corners of Jefferson’s mouth began to lift upwards as well. They never did make it to a smile, but it was pretty damn