27

You are pushed into a dark space by a man you cannot see. He says nothing, but, even if he did, you have a feeling it would be in a language you wouldn't understand. In here, the only language is silence.

You hear a steel door being bolted shut behind you. You know it might never open again.

You wait for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, but there is not enough light for you to see anything. You know this already.

You spread your arms and touch familiar walls in every direction. You've been in this room–no, this alcove–before. There is barely enough space for you to crouch on the floor, your arms wrapped around your knees, the cold cement scraping your bare back, your bare arms, your bare feet.

You've both been here before, you and the person whose body you are sharing. You give yourselves up to the darkness, the silence, the prison. No one can see you, no one can hear you, no one can touch you. Nothing is expected of you here.

It's almost comforting.

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