The Prison

He stared, and stared…and stared some more. Wishing, at the same time, that somehow, by a stroke of luck or otherwise miracle, it would all change. That it had been some kind of dream or illusion, and he would wake up and everything would be gone. Was that possible? He knew perfectly well that even if it had been a dream, the flow of matters would eventually lead him to the same position, and he would be here, staring, and staring…

The sands stopped in mid-air, and like a feather in slow motion, drifted to the bottom, waiting for the others to follow. And wait it did. And so did he. They were playing tricks on him, he was sure of it. The sand, the glass, the walls, the floors…they were all in on it. But he wasn’t about to give in so easily. But he could not stand it. But he had to.

So he didn’t stand it. There was no point, really. This was what they wanted, and he’ll give it to them. There was a certain something that he held onto, always, as a note of confidence to himself. There was no use in keeping it anymore, so he let it go. So he screamed. He screamed, and screamed. Then he stopped. And he stared. And stare was all he did. It was all he could do.

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