by Brynne Asher
*****
The Voice
Who knows when…
Gray concrete.
To the front of me. To the sides. And, should I have cared to look, it was behind and under me, too.
I didn’t care to look.
I didn’t care to do anything.
At first, I’d used the concrete to occupy my mind. To keep me sane. I’d counted each brick. I’d added them, subtracted them, multiplied them, and divided them. I’d grouped them by various distinguishable characteristics and shapes before repeating my math over and over until there was no possible combination left. Then I’d studied each marking, piecing together obscure pictures like drawings on a cave wall.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Months into years. And years into… Gods knew what. Decades? Centuries? I had no idea anymore. Twenty years or two hundred, it felt the same to me.
The concrete no longer offered a distraction.
It mocked me.
My prison.
My hell.
I wish I was dead.
Read the rest of Styx here.
