SOME YEARS LATER

The walls here are white.

Always white.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here and I don’t want to know.

I’m told I’m getting better, I don’t believe them.

I know that’s not true.

I know I’m not getting better.

Because I can still hear them.

Abby’s wheezing.

The squelch of Camilla’s blood on the ground.

Or I’ll see Brad’s broken body.

Or Lou’s wide, terrified eyes.

But it’s not just the memories.

Sometimes I hear them as if they’re talking to me.

Telling me to leave.

To join them.

I smile softly at the wall.

Soon I tell them,

Soon.