Wallace was beside the guy wearing the helmet. He was about thirty, grey hair, skin and clothes. He didn’t talk much. No one talks much on the tenth floor.
Moaning could be heard from the tv lounge, someone has lost a slipper, and that nurse he saw yesterday, (or was it the day/week/month before?), was turning in another ward of the court.
He needed a drink, but all bodily intake was scheduled. As was bodily output and showers. Cruel group activities he was forced to partake in.
There was no smoking up here, no windows, no light and no fans. It smelled up here. Like urine, like bananas, like floor cleaner and jube jubes. The tv got only two stations and one of them didn’t work. They only played classical music to keep everyone on an even keel, mostly.
His stomach turned. The pills were working well on his mind but wreaking havok on the gut. He needed to shit again…only two more hours to wait. He shifted to the other leg and kept reading up against the wall.
His clothes were packed to leave.