Cleaning Out the Closet

I am cleaning my apartment today, and I found this little prose I had written (unknown date):

The darkness stirs like a think heavy fog surrounding me. There is nothing but silence. I am all alone. I lean against the cold, stone wall. My feet are numb — it takes all of my energy to just stay warm.
Suddenly, a sound. Someone is walking towards me. I can faintly hear the clinking of keys on a chain. Is that a voice? Again, I can hear footsteps. Coming closer this time.
I get up, gently awaken my muscles from inaction and slowly make my way around the cell. I place my hands on the wall, more for balance than anything else and feel my way around the room. It’s a tiny room, dirt floors packed hard as stone, and three walls I could touch if I lay down and stretch out. As I feel my blind way around, I can hear voices murmuring. I get to the bars — thick, immovable bars — and I can see a light at the far end of the hall. I can barely squish the face through to see two shadows at the end of the hall. One walks away into the darkness and the other moves toward another cell. I can barely see the shrunken prisoner limping out. I imagine the joy that would be on his (her?) face.

And that’s as far as I got!


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