The Room [antikvár]

He was conscious of the dark stillness in the corridor. He knew there was nothing to be seen, yet he continued to stare thru the reflection of his face in the small window. The corridor was only 7 feet wide and the wall opposite was dimly visible. He read the signs over the dirty-linen baskets—blue shirts, blue pants, blankets, bath towels, hand towels. He was just able to read the last two by pressing against the glass and standing to one side. Again he read them from left to right, standing first in the middle then moving to the left and straining his eyes to read the last sign. Shirts, pants—^he could recite them without trouble. He closed his eyes. Hand towels, blankets, bath towels. He didn't bother checking his accuracy. He knew he was right. Turning from the heavy, locked door he looked in the mirror over the sink. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the night light he could see his face clearly, even to the small blemish on his cheek. He leaned closer and touched the red spot with a finger tip. The beginning of a pimple. He started to squeeze it, then lowered his hands. Why bother? Itll just bruise the skin. I/U wait until it comes to a head if it doesnt just disappear first. Who knows, maybe it will, touching it again with a finger tip. He stopped patting the spot and stood back slightly and just stared at his face, his eyes slowly closing to a squint, his face wrinkling into a frown. He shrugged and turned from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bunk. He knew the room was only dimly lighted compared to the daytime when all the lights in the ceiling