My Own Prison

The sound of the water dripping from the crack in the mortar at the top corner might have been enough to drive a man mad, if he had not been already mad enough to lie in the middle of the flagstones and count the other flagstones on the remaining five surfaces and assign them names. The one with the pebbles shoved into the corner to make its edges line up ought to have some sort of masculine name, for its surface was rough. Some of the other flagstones were made of a darker rock, curiously smooth, either by age or by nature. The mortar between each rectangular piece of hell was surprisingly white up in the ceiling, but darkened as it approached the floor, approached the misery huddled in the middle of it all. The door was made of iron, rusted dark with time and water, and creaked when opened, clanked like a cannon when slammed. The flab in the bottom of the door was just large enough to fit a soup ladle through, though the flat tin dish of tepid soup was long untouched. A window - high, slanting, barely enough to let in sunlight - broke the uniform precision of the flagstones and bricks, and the air that seeped down was salty, from the sea. The constant drip of water was enough to drive a man mad, but after dark, the pattering of tiny feet and the swish of worm-like tails was enough to drive a man to terror.