Seven, I think to myself. It’s been seven drops so far.
I hear the rustling in the corner. Nopleasenopleaseno – my weak heart takes to pleading at the seventh drop, at the rustling. My brain tells it to shut up and stay calm – the more adrenaline pumping through me, the more of myself I lose.
That’s the eighth one. Still some way to go.
See, after I get my pitiful excuse for a dinner, the dishes get washed. And invariably that damn pipe starts leaking. Thirty plops and its midnight. Thirty plops and it comes out.
I’ve been here a long time. 4 years and 93 days, by the sound of the drops. It comes to me at midnight, a small bundle that looks like it’s made of black smoke. It surrounds me and somehow enters my mind, my soul, whatever you want to call it. And it starts sucking. When it leaves, I’m always weak, and feel like I just ran a full marathon. I sleep, and the next day comes.
In the morning, it’s as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed. I am given food and some water to bathe in, and I clean myself. I have recently been allowed to read, and I pick up Lolita.
A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves – no, there are no stars here, and no trees, where I lie. I can do nothing, not even watch – perhaps that is something I should actually be grateful for.
Thirty. The darkness is near, I can feel it weighing down on me. Please spare the poor girl please leave me today no don’t want to no –
I am the darkness, and I will obey.