“This is the scent of dead skin on the linoleum floor.
This is the sight of quarantine wings in a hospital.
It’s not so pleasant and it’s not so conventional.
It sure as [heck ] ain’t normal , but we deal.
We deal.”
- PANIC! At the Disco
I hadn’t the pleasure of being his first, and I most certainly wouldn’t be his last.
The air hung hot and heavy, ravenous for every ragged breath I could shake from my exasperated lungs. It overwhelmed my weary frame, collapsed like a cinder block atop my shirtless chest, and lapped greedily at my dry, cracked lips. Its suffocation I could not escape and its strangulation stifled my sensibilities. My arms groped desperately for the floor, seeking the solace of the cool linoleum. I flung myself into its embrace. Dumbfounded, I lay panting, every bone aching from the shock of the collision, framed by the sterile walls of my tiny prison. My head was swimming and I succumbed to a wave of drowsiness I had long eluded. I slept for many hours.
Upon waking, I found myself in a more favorable set of circumstances. The heat had subsided, my captor aware it was now fairly tolerated by my worn body, simply due to the extreme exposure. I managed to prop myself up against one of the concrete walls and swiped a sticky blanket of sweat from the crease of my neck. At the moment, at least, I was safe. Safe. The absurdity of the words produced a chilling, coarse cackle that sliced my dry throat. It echoed throughout the room, its reverberations inducing upon me a drunkenness from some strange, delirious revelry. I could not stop myself for some minutes and my harsh and broken laugh became one like velvety music. My sandpaper cheeks cracked and twisted into a wild grin. Safe! The very thought of it. Safe inside this hell.
