by
Karan Seraph
The sound was insistent. Like a dripping faucet, like a tell-tale heart. It was regular and moist: that sort of sound. What it came from I couldn't tell you. I don't know. Only that the sound drove more of us mad than being locked within four walls of a prison cell.
You can't do anything with that sound there. You can't breathe without falling into its rhythm as you inhale and exhale. You can't even think. Any song you sing, any rhyme you recite to distract from the boredom, soon falls into cadence with the sound. It's overpowering, obliterating all rhythms your body can produce.
It's effect on the mind is paralysing. One soon finds themselves banging their head to its music as they sit in a corner. Those who fight it scream terribly, trying such desperate things as clawing off their own ears or beating themselves in the head to keep from hearing it. They run into walls. They stuff their ears with shit. And all other prisoners imagine the sound to be that of the blood draining from these poor soul’s bodies as they hang dead from some ceiling like slaughtered pigs, having died some horrible and painful death.
I myself gave into the sound. I practised at breathing and walking to its music. I surrendered my body to it and masturbated to its rhythm. I found my heart echoing its beats. I moved and sung prayers to it all to its divine music. I composed poetry of its same cadence, hooking two and three beats together for timing. I lived in and for the sound. Its insistence was my salvation.
Until my rescuers killed my god, mercilessly, driving me into despair. Plummeting me into a Hell of silence and chaotic noise. They spoke in blasphemous voices and ordered me to forsake my god.
I would not. I could not.
They locked me within four walls of a padded cell, in silence.
I fought it.
THE END