The Prison
Greg Garcia
T
he fluorescent light seeps sickly through the supermarket as you slowly creep down the
aisles vacantly scanning heaps of food. You know you came here for a reason but it’s
such an immense effort to remember what that was. You’re grateful for the shopping cart
you’re clinging to. Without its support, you fear you’ll collapse. Suddenly, a spasm of pain
shoots up your left arm. Your right hand reflexively darts over to the injured area, dropping
something you hadn’t noticed you were holding. Curious, you stoop to pick it up with
exceeding difficulty.
Your clumsy fingers pry a small slip of paper off the polished tile floor. You see words written
in your handwriting you don’t remember writing. They’re hard to read, partly because it’s
becoming impossible for you to focus on anything for longer than a few moments and partly
because a dark red stain obscures them. Someone in your head is screaming that these words
are important but the scream sounds muffled, faint, submerged beneath the sludge that
pollutes your mind, and you can’t understand it. You shake your head, slip the piece of paper
into your pocket, and resume your mindless trudge through the market.
You’re now standing in front of the butcher’s display case. The various cuts of beef, lamb,
and pork lure you towards them with a siren’s song of scent. Relief washes over you
inexplicably as you look at them. You never before noticed how awfully beautiful meat is.
The rivulets of ground beef, the ribs that rise and fall like waves in a red sea, the marbling
of the choicest cuts that spiral here and there in vicious whirlpools; how could such beauty
have previously eluded you?
“What can I getcha, Mrs. Fowler?”
Startled from your musings, you look up to see the butcher is smiling at you inquiringly.
Someone in your head knows this man but someone in your head has lost their voice from
screaming. You realize you’re expected to say something and have to take a moment to remind
yourself how to speak.
“R — rib-eye. Please.”
“Boneless or bone-in?”
You lick your lips.
“In.”
The butcher nods cheerfully. He gestures at the thick, juicy steaks and asks if there’s a
specific one you want. You point at the biggest, choicest cut. He reaches inside the display
case and hefts it out.
“Somethin’ special for Mr. Fowler?” he asks happily. You manage a smile and wonder if it
looks as painful as it feels. The look on the butcher’s face says yes. He places the steak on a
scale. “Heard what they’re sayin’ on the news?” He deftly wraps it in brown butcher’s paper.
12
The Ghouls’ Review