Drip, drip

November 30, 2017

Isolated. The fear of it is called autophobia. I used to have autophobia but I’ve gotten used to it. The isolation. I’ve been stuck here for 5 months, 4 days, 3 hours, 26 minutes, and about 20 seconds give or take. 21 seconds, 22 seconds, 23 seconds. I miss the sunshine against my face. The sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks below my house. The tangy smell of the saltwater from the ocean that crashes up the cliff. I haven’t seen this in so long. I haven’t seen any people. Or heard any. My ears ring, waiting for sound other than the dripping of the water falling from the pipe. My stomach ached but there was no source of food. The blackness was all that was there. I shivered as a cool breeze came across as the door opened, but I didn’t dare try to escape. Last time I tried, all I saw was blackness then a dull pain throbbing in the back of my head. I knew this was the end of me.

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