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Weekly Contest #62
My life is not my own. An artificial pulse of fluorescent lighting governs my time. Flick it on, daybreak. Turn it off, nightfall. Only mundane cues remind me that I’m still alive each day: the sound of footsteps prodding down the cell floor corridor, the prick of a syringe, maybe a hosing down of my cell. I’m not hungry, that’s the good news. No, they would never let us get hungry. So, even though I know what it’s for, I smack smack smack the grainy brown food I’m served. I’ve been told of my fate, again and again, but I just can’...
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