Ambrosia
A short story about a final meal seems apposite somehow
In the beginning it was a shock. The steel door slammed into its airlock behind me. There was a long empty corridor ahead. I expected noise, I expected the handcuffs to be removed but I had to walk semi-detached, my boots echoing on the concrete floor until I began to hear a hint of sounds of life. The keys came out and I was escorted in the heated hubbub of a kitchen. Another door sucked its heft into its steel frame and the guard removed my restraints.
“This is Lemmy” he called to an immense, tattooed man, who didn’t look up from the steaming pans in front of him.
“Ambrose! Lemmy, you’re expecting him?”
A sweat soaked face emerged and Ambrose hulked towards them with a look of disdain
“Pots” he spat, pointing to the sinks
And so began my apprenticeship. I was an artist, but an artist on the wrong side of the law neither indulges his craft nor weaves his own career path. Pot washing was my lot. Kitchen work was a baptism of fire. Days of my arms submerged in water that was too hot, dishes that were too dirty and soap that didn’t cut it. Indoor hard manual labour. The days fell into a mindless routine. The achievement of low grade crockery cleaned, dried, stacked and pots scraped, scrubbed all to be dirtied again. I counted off the endless days…
