8 X 8

I sat alone feet together under a small metal framed table. The hall was crowded and the sound of chatter and conversations settled somewhere between the high ceiling and the lino floor. Accustomed to the sound, I blanked it from my mind so that I could focus on the squares.
The squares were perfectly shaped and in a neat 8 by 8 square. Eight perfect squares on one side, eight on the other, eight on the other and on the other side eight more. My draughts lay there awaiting my instructions, my opponents stood ominously opposite. I stared fascinated by the symmetry, the roundness of each draught, each pretending to be the same. I stared contemplating my first move as I did every day at this time and a ritual I had performed every day for the last two years.
         It was a low security establishment, I was considered unfortunate by some that I was placed in a room by myself.  It wasn’t my choice; I left that choice open for the people who made those kinds of decisions. They said that anyone that shared a room with me grew lonely. It’s true I never spoke to them. “How can you make friends if you don’t want to speak to your new roommates? I was told. I listened but felt that a friend was not someone who relied on endless conversations but on understanding.
So for two years now I had for the majority of the time lived alone in my room, let out only for recreation, meals and exercise. Each day to the casual observer would appear to be the same day for me. Same wake up calls, same breakfast lunch and dinner times, same time allowed for me to examine the draught board.
You may be wondering why I came to be settled in this environment. You could ask my brother Tom, who came to visit once a month. He brought bourbon biscuits and fruit cake to me every time he came. He knew they were my favourites.  In fact my brother did not have the answer to why I ended up here; to him I should never have arrived here. One day all going well and enjoying the game of life and the next I am distant, mentally unstable. Unable to play the game anymore. The experts had the answers, their answers. I had mine too, but I was not prepared to share them with anyone at this time.
The bell clattered high up on the wall, I looked at it as it rang. It told me that my time was up. No piece moved, I carefully slid the opposition’s draughts into the tattered cardboard box and lifted each of my pieces individually starting from the top and working back through the ranks till the board was empty. Folding up the board I stood up and joined the flock of people each making their way back to their room.
Back in my room, I settled on my bed, on my back staring up at the blank ceiling. The ceiling was blank and dirty, high enough that I could not reach the single bulb geometrically highlighting the centre of the room. I stared at the ceiling for one, sometimes two hours at a time. That’s where I found the answers to most of my questions.
Although I was content to be here, that was not to say that I did not have my moments of extreme unpleasantness to deal with. One day I was sat waiting to make my first move and a stranger sat down opposite and pushed a black draught one square forward. He quickly left as he observed the dissatisfaction on my face. As he walked away muttering under his breath, he left me with the problem. A black piece lay on the board where it should not have been. I was white it was my first move; this was totally unacceptable and unreal. I could not move for almost 30mins as I stared at what was impossible to conceive. When the bell rang I quickly swept the black pieces off the board including the rogue piece. Swiftly making my way back to my room so that I could perhaps glean some answers to what had just happened by staring at my ceiling.
One evening as I lay on my bed, I prepared myself for my early morning wakeup call as I did every night. I closed my eyes and imagined this huge 20 storey building with the last two top floors illuminated with giant liquid crystal digits displaying the time for every on looker to observe. I simply had to imagine those digits displaying 08:00 am and I knew I would wake up at that time. It worked every day.
That evening was like any other and the routine comforted my whole body and enabled me to relax into a deep sleep.  However that sleep was disturbed like a shoal of herring scattering in mad organised panic, frightened by an unseen sea monster that had only one intention in mind. I rushed across to the window, staring into the black sky. I could tell it was still early, by the absence of noise. I started to push against the locked door, then started banging with my fists, and then when my anxiety and panic had reached its climax I began screaming. Screaming at the top of my lungs, and yet no one could hear me, because I could not hear myself! I thought my heart was going to stop as I felt the beats quicken and thicken in my chest.
Suddenly and without reason, I opened my eyes and pulled the sheets down from over my head and realised that I had just had an horrific nightmare. The sweat trickled down my forehead but the smell of sweat soaked into the sheets made me want to get out of the bed. I slowly gathered my thoughts and walked over to the window. It was early and I looked at the full moon, a moon when full I considered happy; this thought relaxed me a little. My mind eased down the ladder of panic and anxiety and I began to feel in control once again. I looked at the moon, watching it paint the black canvas sky with bright streaks of light. Never in two years had I experienced such feelings of helplessness.
That day I felt uncomfortable and uneasy. I almost completely forgot it was the day my brother was due to visit.  I went through the habitual motions prior to the visit and even started to crest my psychological discomfort as I sat patiently waiting for my brother to arrive. As he sat opposite, I sensed something was wrong. We never ever spoke; he was used to this now after all this time. This never stopped him talking however and he was happy to carry on a conversation completely one-sided. He occasionally posed a question to me, not really expecting an answer more to create a balance to the conversation. I enjoyed listening to what was happening in his life, the good the bad, the highs and lows of his life and the joy provided by his nine year old daughter. He smiled as he explained how his daughter thought she was all grown up as she was approaching her 10th birthday. “She said she would be grown up because her age would be in double figures”, he said. I never reacted, but I listened, I always listened very carefully.

So when he told me he would not be visiting me any more I heard every word as though it was being typed out on an old typewriter whose ribbon had faded so much each letter had to be hammered out two or three times. He said he was sorry and that he wouldn’t be able to bring me any more bourbon biscuits or fruit cake. The latter he said while a tear ran down his cheek. I was torn inside and felt an emptiness engulf me; I was alone in a dark void.
That afternoon after the visit, as I sat staring at my draughts, admiring the way they all sat perfectly central within each square, I realised something which struck me as odd. I was thinking about my brother’s words and then the jigsaw pieces fell into place. This was going to be my last ever time I would be sat here like this. The pleasure I received by looking down at my draughts I would not be able to experience ever again. I just sat motionless which was not so unusual but this time my mind was also motionless, numb, saddened by this thought and what I knew was an inescapable fact.
The nurse explained to Tom that he was indeed making the right decision. Two years in a coma was sufficient time to convince the doctors and specialists that recovery was impossible. “As you know your brother suffered extreme head injury during the car crash”, said the nurse. “There is every likely hood that there would be some extent of brain damage even if he was to awaken from the coma”, the nurse continued. Tom understood the facts, however hard they were to absorb, the inevitable time he was dreading had eventually come round. He had arrived with bourbon biscuits and fruit cake as usual but the thought of walking back out of the hospital with them was too much to bear. He placed them on the bedside table as he did every visit. He realised the nurses would no doubt take them and give them to other patients, this was never a problem to him. All that mattered was that he knew they were his brother’s favourites.
As he placed the items down on top of the table he looked at the next shelf down and saw the folded up draught board and on top of it the tattered cardboard box, holding the pieces. His daughter had brought them two years ago on her first visit. He remembered his daughter’s words that day when she learned that her uncle was “asleep” in hospital after a car accident. “When he wakes up I can play a game of draughts with him” she said all confidently and happy, as if this was a sure thing. Tom stared for a moment at the board and draughts and then turned and walked away. He would leave them there for his brother.