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Description
Its raining.

I can hear it, drumming on the windowpane. I don’t even have to look up. Or listen. The light is throwing shadows up on the wall, even though the heavy clouds outside is suppressing it. They crawl around… like worms in a can. One layer atop of another.

What time is it? 3? 4? Its not five yet. The custodian would have been bringing out the trays of food. I can hear him long before he comes. The front wheel on his cart squeaks and I hear the little grates in the doors being opened and closed as he moves down the corridor. I always used know when it’d be my turn. The person in the room to my right is called Smith. He screams every time they open the grate to slide food into him. “Easy, Mr Smith” the custodian will say. That’s all he ever says.
One day, Smith didn’t scream. He had hung himself. I heard them rush in, and lift him up while shouting for help. Now Smith has no bed sheets anymore. Nothing to hide behind, or use to escape. He crawls under his bed now, when he gets scared. I can hear him scraping about on the floor at night. Sometimes he gets panic attacks, and screams and howls. He bangs his head against the wall, and throws himself against the padded door until the custodians come. They strap him in and give him a syringe.
It’s not his fault though. He sees things. Horrible things. One time they strapped him in and didn’t give him any tranquilizer. He screamed and cried for hours, as whatever demonic horror he imagined taunted him without any retreat. Eventually some of the others began shouting too, and they came back and gave him a shot.

A car is pulling up. I can hear its tires cracking through the gravel on the entrance path. Its visitor time. If I got up on the chair I could see it; coming around the tall hedges that hide the fence and down the alley of tall trees.
I don’t remember the last time I got a visit. I think it was last Christmas. Or maybe it’s something I imagined?
Doesn’t matter.

Amos is singing again. It’s the same tune he always sings. No lyrics. Just a wordless hum. Maybe he doesn’t remember the words. Or maybe he has sung it so often that the words lost their meaning. Like when you repeat a sentence over and over until it becomes gibberish.
I guess it is five after all. The squeaky wheel is here. In a few moments Smith will scream in terror as the hatch opens and Amos will sing as my hatch opens and a tray of food comes in. It’s Tuesday; it will be beans.

The shadow of the wet window pane still plays across the dirty tiles on the wall. Across the yellow discoloration. Creating weird shapes in the crevices.

Its raining, and in a moment I will get beans from the food cart with the squeaky wheel.

Description
Its raining.

I can hear it, drumming on the windowpane. I don’t even have to look up. Or listen. The light is throwing shadows up on the wall, even though the heavy clouds outside is suppressing it. They crawl around… like worms in a can. One layer atop of another.

What time is it? 3? 4? Its not five yet. The custodian would have been bringing out the trays of food. I can hear him long before he comes. The front wheel on his cart squeaks and I hear the little grates in the doors being opened and closed as he moves down the corridor. I always used know when it’d be my turn. The person in the room to my right is called Smith. He screams every time they open the grate to slide food into him. “Easy, Mr Smith” the custodian will say. That’s all he ever says.
One day, Smith didn’t scream. He had hung himself. I heard them rush in, and lift him up while shouting for help. Now Smith has no bed sheets anymore. Nothing to hide behind, or use to escape. He crawls under his bed now, when he gets scared. I can hear him scraping about on the floor at night. Sometimes he gets panic attacks, and screams and howls. He bangs his head against the wall, and throws himself against the padded door until the custodians come. They strap him in and give him a syringe.
It’s not his fault though. He sees things. Horrible things. One time they strapped him in and didn’t give him any tranquilizer. He screamed and cried for hours, as whatever demonic horror he imagined taunted him without any retreat. Eventually some of the others began shouting too, and they came back and gave him a shot.

A car is pulling up. I can hear its tires cracking through the gravel on the entrance path. Its visitor time. If I got up on the chair I could see it; coming around the tall hedges that hide the fence and down the alley of tall trees.
I don’t remember the last time I got a visit. I think it was last Christmas. Or maybe it’s something I imagined?
Doesn’t matter.

Amos is singing again. It’s the same tune he always sings. No lyrics. Just a wordless hum. Maybe he doesn’t remember the words. Or maybe he has sung it so often that the words lost their meaning. Like when you repeat a sentence over and over until it becomes gibberish.
I guess it is five after all. The squeaky wheel is here. In a few moments Smith will scream in terror as the hatch opens and Amos will sing as my hatch opens and a tray of food comes in. It’s Tuesday; it will be beans.

The shadow of the wet window pane still plays across the dirty tiles on the wall. Across the yellow discoloration. Creating weird shapes in the crevices.

Its raining, and in a moment I will get beans from the food cart with the squeaky wheel.