Back to work now. Nick sat up straight and returned to his failed meditation. He tried to clear his mind. The stultifying numbness of isolation left him buzzing, and thoughts still invaded his head. But now it was slightly easier to keep the thoughts away and meditate. Time passed slowly as he sat there staring at nothing.
Following Constance's advice, he did his best to appreciate life. After all, his life was good. He had come a long way from being an uncared-for baby, warehoused in foster homes that he hated. Now he was grown up and had a real life to live. He had done well. Until recently, that is.
Nick let go of upsetting thoughts and cleared his head again. He actually managed to empty his mind for what seemed like a long stretch. But in the end, the thoughts won and swarmed back in. He took a minute to indulge himself in worry, then he dipped back into the now. The battle for control of his mind went on and on.
A picture flashed in his mind of his desk at home. The desk had belonged to his step father, the only item from Dad that meant anything to him. Unlike all of the other rickety stuff in his little garage that came from discount furniture outlets, the desk was old and solid and well made. It had a stack of drawers on the right side, and a wide drawer in the center. It reminded Nick of the father he had loved so much.
For some reason, Nick kept thinking about the desk. He tried to imagine his father sitting at it in their upstairs bedroom, but whenever he did, he saw the desk in its current location, down in the garage. If the image of the desk was trying to tell him something, the message had nothing to do with his father.
Nick closed his eyes and cleared his mind. After a few minutes, the desk reappeared. This time, his mental picture was focused on the bottom drawer. It seemed brighter, as if it was lit up from the inside.
What is in that drawer? Junk. The drawer was deeper than the others, designed for file folder storage. Since Nick didn't have any file folders, the drawer had some food in it. He tried to remember what. Pretzels, dried fruit, a loaf of bread, and maybe a bottle of rum. There had to be something else, but nothing came to mind.
What a pointless revelation. Constance would be annoyed with information like that. He continued to meditate.
Food slid into his cell with each passing day. He did sleep, but he woke often. With each hour in the cell, he felt more and more fatigued, drained of life and energy. He wanted to scream, but refrained from yielding to the temptation. Besides, others in the cell block were doing plenty of that.