/lit/ - Literature

>>4179717
The silence was deafening. My vision smothered by the six colorless surfaces that housed my prison. Taste and smell non-existence by this stage, but somehow hunger too. No textures to excite myself other than the smooth coldness of the walls and my own skin. Was there even a difference now?

This room had been made for me. It was the perfect home. It restated my attitude, my dreams, my hopes, my future, my past, my present, my life. It was this realization that, like a balloon that was held too tight, snapped something within me. I committed an unthinkable act of self mutilation. Possibly for punishment. Possibly for fun. Or most possibly, because it was the only thing left to do.

/thread