Solitary by E. Gallagher

I hear footsteps every hour, and those are real. My cell is a yellowing ruin. It must have been pristine horror decades ago, aggressively white. Consuming. But the yellow, it erodes.

Four mouldering teeth bit me off from the world. They chitter sometimes; they sing—a wild, ululating silence that rings my temples. I scream to hear sound, rave at jaundiced echoes. I strain for footsteps. Not alone! But they are metronomic. They. Do. Not. Pause.

How many have splashed themselves into these walls? Left as honeyed stains?

I could embed myself, join them.

Escape the lie of solitary confinement.