The Room by Hubert Selby Jr.

with the tip of his finger, aware that it was more sensitive, but quickly turned his attention to his entire face. Actually it was his expression, his countenance, that he examined. He studied his face from various angles, noticing the angle of his jawbone, the slope of his cheeks, the shallow lines on his forehead and all the time aware too of his eyes, knowing from the inside that their expression never changed, but continually confirming the fact from the outside. No matter what part of his face he examined or what aspect of his expression he scrutinized, the reflection of secretive knowledge in his eyes never changed.
    He didnt walk to the mess hall with buoyancy in his step, but with a very conscious awareness of solidity. Each step was firm with knowledgeand direction. Just as firm as the concrete upon which he walked.
    As he stood in line in the mess hall, aware yet undisturbed by the noise and commotion, he knew that the others were aware of him, glancing at him from the corners of their eyes, yet he didnt feel self-conscious. He realized he was conspicuous, as much so as if he were 7 feet tall with orange hair, yet he wasnt disturbed. He simply accepted it. He realized he had no choice. There was no hiding how he felt. He knew too that the buzzing of voices was due to their speculating about him and he was almost tempted to tell them who he was and what he was going to do. He wanted to tell them how he was going to help them beat the fucking law, but realized this was not the time or place. And anyway, they would know. Someday. So he moved along in line hearing his own distinct steps above the shuffling of the others.
    He picked up his tray and passed along the line silently accepting the food then walking to a table and sitting at the end. He ate slowly almost ignoring the taste of the food, but enjoying the eating of it. He also enjoyed his hunger. It wasnt a panicky hunger, but a very natural one that was easily satisfied, diminishing slowly with the swallowing of each mouthful of food. It was a hunger of strength, a strength that increased as the hunger ebbed.
    As he ate he raised his head imperceptibly and glanced around the room and as his eyes passed from face to face he noticed their expression change to one of hope and understanding readily recognizing the glimmer of understanding in the many pairs of eyes that met his. He allowed the faintest of smiles to alter his expression, knowing that those eyes were looking to him for reassurance, for strength. Even the eyes in the most distant corner of the mess hall were looking to him sensing somehow that he would be their salvation. He knew he was the focal point of their despair and frustration. And he knew, too, that though he sat there silently and slowly eating in the midst of the clanging of tin trays and cups that they found the reassurance they needed in his eyes. He was the hope of the hopeless.
    When it wastime to go back to the cells he could feel the dignity in the way he stood and walked, and when the door was clanged shut behind him it was just another sound, a sound he didnt have to ignore because it was no longer important.
    He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the wall with an amused look of indulgence. The wall was there, more or less, but it didnt matter because the distance between him and the wall was vast and temporary and easily tolerated for now. And that door that clanged open and shut from time to time was nothing. A big nothing. And just as far away as the wall.
    Actually he enjoyed sitting in his cell, his little 9×6 room. It was all a part of something, his being here, sitting on the edge of his bed. He felt a comfort and a sense of power. It was hard to describe to everyone just how he felt, but the feeling was strong and confident. His feeling of enjoyment didnt simply come from the knowledge that he would soon be out, but what was going to happen when he got out. And who was going to get him out.
    Actually he hoped he didnt