The gate was softly closed.
I looked around at my new abode. The room was reminiscent of my childhood home. There was an easy chair, a table with lamp, an open bible. The floor was carpeted with a thick gray carpet. Soft music filled the air; jazz, I think.
A coffee table contained an ashtray, Camel cigarettes, and a book of matches. Also there were four magazines: Playboy, BetterHomes and Gardens, Golf, and Popular Mechanics. All magazines I had subscribed too.
The walls held pictures of Jesus Christ, a scenic woodland shot, and four pictures of the Harpen family. Patrick, the father, Denise, the mother, and the two twins, Eric and Ernest. With tears running down my face, I stared at their family photos.
Behind me a voice said, “Mr. Jackson. Your supper.”
“Thanks, Tom,” I said as I retrieved the supper tray of fried chicken, and all the trimmings. After a few bites of everything I could no longer eat.
“It’s time, Mr. Jackson,” a guard said, a priest stood alongside him.