wasn’t much to see, wasn’t much to be seen, and he knew it. He knew every inch
of the room; had taken its inventory a million billion times, day in and day
out since his sentence had begun. Nothing but crumbs and dust and a bed he’d
He hadn’t heard a thing but his own thoughts in
ages, and even they were beginning to fade. Mostly all he had these days was
the memory of sound: screams, sobs, and the slamming of doors.
only face he’d seen was his own, smiling, on the tattered magazine cover.