I have been locked in a cell, a small cell that only allows a small bed and nothing else. The walls are concrete. That scratchy, rendered concrete that is painted a pale yellow colour. It scratches my palms when I run my hands over it; it feels cool beneath my skin.
My bed is made of cast iron and squeaks with any movement on it. The mattress is thin and smells musty. Not the great grandma, old book musty though. It’s the lonely one, the abandoned one.
Jack Frost visits me in the winter time. He seeps through the cracks of the window in the dead of night and fills the room with his presence, penetrating deep into my lungs. When I wake in the morning my breaths are sharp and jagged, and I can feel him lingering on the window.
My family and friends come to visit me often, constantly reassuring me that soon I will be set free. I should tell them that I sleep with the key under my pillow. That secretly, I wish to stay.
I have been locked a cell of my own creation, and I fear that I shall never be set free
no good can come of this