The cold and hard ground of your cell contrasts against your dirty skin.

You don’t know for how long you have been locked up in here.

Months, or even years.

They say it is because of your touch. They say it’s because they want to keep you and others safe from yourself. From what you can do.

You’re lost in your thoughts as you hear something. It’s almost distant, until you see a bright light.

You shield your eyes from the fluorescent light as you look up.

Soft footsteps as they get closer.

And then a voice.

“How’ve you been faring in here, love? They keeping you well fed?”

A calm voice. Too calm. The voice of a person who thinks you’re living your best life. In a prison cell.