Forced Dinner Party

The doors buzz and then open, letting me and nine other men step out of our rooms for the first time in hours. 

            Hours? Maybe days. There is no clock in there. 

            All of us are silent as we are ushered down the corridor. Through the thick windows, I can see it is daylight outside–that still doesn’t help me deceiver how long I’ve been cooped up in there for. 

            Once we get to a large open room, we are free to roam. Well, roam as much as we can in a room that only fits ten men, excluding the additional figures standing in every corner of the room. 

            Silently still, we all form a line before the “buffet.” We each grab a tray and allow the only woman in the room to pile stuff on top of it–two slices of bread, an orange, and a plateful of something that looks like stew, but is definitely too dense to be. Then, we grab a cup of something that I think is lemonade, and we are done.

            The line shortens, and we all take a seat at the only table in the room. My chair is still warm–we are not the first section getting fed today.

            Silence still, it is just forks scooping the mysterious food into mouths. 

            I’m the first one to get sick of it. 

            “So, how was everyone’s day?”

            I am met with stares and grumbles. I look around the circle of men I have shared a building with, but never a conversation. 

            “Mine was peachy, if you were wondering.” I say again, a second attempt.

            Still, nothing. I decide not to say anything further, but then–a laugh. A deep, hoarse laugh that seems to rumble the table. My eyes again quickly skim the crowd, trying to catch the cuprite before the laugh is gone, but I don’t need too.

            “Over here, boy!” My head immediately snaps to the far end of the table, and everyone else seems to turn their neck the same way.

            “Prison is dry of conversation, isn’t it?” He says again before letting out another low rumble. I can’t help but let out my own laugh. The old man is so tiny, I don’t even question why I hadn’t noticed him before, and the orange clothing does nothing to help stand him out. 

            I also realize that I’m not the only one laughing in response to him, most of the men are.

            “What’s your name, sir?” I question. This makes him laugh longer.

            “Ha! Being called ‘sir’ as a prisoner! That’s a first!” He laughs until he coughs–I can tell he spends the entirety of the time in his cell smoking on something. “Same’s Sonny.”

            “Isn’t that–“ a man across the table from me begins to speak, but Sonny cuts him off. 

            “A dogs name? Yeah, well, my parents wanted a greyhound, but got me instead!” He again laughs at his own joke. At this point, the room does not stop vibrating. 

            Everyone has also stopped eating, now all looking towards Sonny. 

            “Well, now that we got everyone’s attention, what should we do? Share stories, describe our wives, discuss how much we workout?”

            “How about how awful this food is?” The man who previously got cut off speaks. 

            Almost everyone chuckles at that. “Seriously, what is this? Too thick to be stew…” another one states. 

            “That’s exactly what I thought!” I exclaim. 

            “Also, how old is this bread?” Another asks. 

            “I don’t even want to know.” Says another.

            “Well, at least the oranges are fresh!”

            “Are they?”

            Everyone begins to howl with laughter. 

            I know we have a time limit, and we will get kicked out of this room weather we have eaten or not, and clearly, we are all hungry because we are eating this mush, but we are clearly all starved more for conversation. 

            “Has anyone dared to try the drink yet?” one asks. 

            “I think it’s lemonade.” I speak.

            “Or piss!” Says Sonny. The table erupts into laughter again. 

            We then fall into silence, and there’s only one question in my mind. It releases from my lips without my permission. “How long have you been here, Sonny?”

            All the men seem to shoot me a glance–no one really asks how long someone has been here, how long they have left, or why they are here at all. Then again, no one seems to talk about anything, so why do there need to be rules?

            Although the men glance at me, they eagerly turn back to look at Sonny expectedly. 

            To me and everyone’s surprise, Sonny answers. “Seventeen years, I think.”

            Everyone sucks in a breath. I hesitantly take a bite of bread and I see others sneaking food into their mouths too. Still got to eat. Clearly, Sonny has been here the longest.

            “I can’t say I regret it. Twenty years ago, my wife and I went camping. But it wasn’t just any trip, it was her last one. We knew it would be–she had been diagnosed with cancer, and she had been in stage four for six months already.”

            Those who were eating, stop. Me included. We all lock eyes on Sonny. 

            “See, the thing about cancer is this–no matter where it is in your body, it hurts. Verna started with it just in her leg, and it got amputated. But then it spread, and eventually was latched onto her organs.

            “We tried a lot of things, I begged her to try every type of treatment offered when one didn’t work, and she would do it, for me. But it just got to the point where I could see she didn’t want to try anymore, that she knew nothing would work, because nothing had worked already. Not even enough to be hopeful. She just kept getting sicker, and she was in so much pain…

            “It’s hard to see the one you love in the world with the most pain. If you haven’t, believe me, you are lucky. And when you get out of here, apologize to everyone around you, because you caused them an unfair amount of pain. More pain than you experience here.” Sonny uses his arm to gesture around the room, and the entire building. 

            “Anyway, do I need to say what I did? My wife was in pain, we took a last trip together, and then I did her final wish, even though it killed me to do so. But I felt better, knowing I was putting her in a better place, you know?”

            Someone mutters “wow” under their breath. The air is so tense that even if our time was up, I don’t think the guards would escort us out. 

            “It took them three years to mark me as guilty, and you know, taking a life means being in prison for the rest of your life, so here I am.” He cracks a smile, but it isn’t like the ones earlier. This one is laced with sadness. 

            “That isn’t right.” I mumble, and everyone nods their head in agreement. 

            “All he was trying to do was help his wife!” A man says, nudging the guy next to him.

            “That’s the first time I’ve ever told that story in here.” Sonny says, meeting us all with glossy eyes. “It’s the first time anyone has asked.”

            I stand, and before I register what I’m doing, I’m walking over to Sonny and shaking his hand. As I do so, all the other men stand and make a line behind me, doing the same. 

            And then we sit down, eat our bread, and tell each other what we did to get ourselves in here.