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HE MISSED DIRT. It's rich, earthy scent. The pressure of pebbles against his palms, underneath his nails, clinging to his skin. He missed the way the gravel crunched beneath his shoes, the grass blades tickling the bottoms of his feet. Hell, even the weeds that sprouted from between the cracks in the road, the kind that blew away in the wind and made his eyes water and nose run like an endless fountain.
Micah had figured the worst part of imprisonment would be the part where he was locked in a cell for the rest of his life. The part where he was isolated and alone, left to revel in the fact that his only company was that of the officers with no other choice but to provide him with the bare necessities. It was torturous, how slowly the days went by━━no light to judge the hours, no clock to confirm the times. But, no, it wasn't the worst of it.
The hardest part was remembering all the things that went on without him while he sat, idly, on the floor of his chamber. The winds still blew, the grass still swayed, the dirt didn't go untouched, undisturbed. Humanity wasn't the type to exist at a standstill. The world didn't pause simply because a boy made a mistake that would cost him the remainder of his life. Instead, it waited with baited breath for swords to be swung and heads to roll. The spectacle of the entire thing was more disturbing than most would like to admit, easier to play up the role of the gossiping common folk than to see the true nature of what they are to witness. A boy encaptured for something men twice his age would have gotten a slap on the wrist for. Soldiers would have thought nothing wrong with themselves.
He'd grown to hate stone. Its cut and smooth surface was maddening, its existence more caging than the bars that only saw one side of his four walls. Worse, even, was that it was all encompassing. To his sides, above, below. Micah figured he was more accustomed to the feel of his cheek pressed to the cold, hard ground than the soft comfort of a bed.
That was another thing he missed: a proper bed. Not the excuse for a cot that lies flat in the corner of his cell. Under different circumstances one might mistake it for a cloth covered board. Atop it was what looked to be an even sturdier pillow, a sad lump of cotton used as a sad excuse for a blanket, and broken spectacles riddled with specks of blood. The glasses would have otherwise been perched upon the bridge of Micah's nose, but seeing as the state of the lenses━━cracked beyond repair and one of the temples snapped in half, its fragment abandoned to the side━━and the condition of his nose, he knew he'd not be getting any use out of them any time soon.
Prior to his time being jailed, Micah had not broken a single bone. Save for the few bumps and scrapes that all children wear at some time in their lives, he had been free of anything more. Yet, he has more broken bones to his name than he'd ever have coin. A finger not quite healed, crooked at the knuckle. A knee weaker than the other. And, now, a nose that would never not be misshapen.
