My cell has transformed in to my safe heaven. They don't hurt me in here. The brown mold on the wall makes it look cushioned and more forgiving then I remember. The three walls don't seem like they're imprisoning me anymore but are protecting me and the jagged stone floor is my strong hold in this reality. Silence has become the only law down here. The steady silence is the constant safe guard against going completely insane. As long as I stay silent I will be ok.
The voices that existed down here have all fled and left me alone in this echoing place. Even the voices that came from above never visit my dank home anymore.
I will sit in the same spot that I always do, in the corner that is farthest from my cell door. I never leave my place on the floor for fear of the sound of clothing ruffling. My calloused feet could scrap along the clay floor. I've fallen into a perfect rhythm; perfect stillness.
Which makes the voices all the more jarring. They've always called me 'Murderess' and 'Witch'. Those who say that remembering one's own name helps you keep your sanity. That has never helped me. My name is now used as a precaution. Something to fear.
Don't become the next Mara.
Pray that Mara doesn't come after you.
Stay quiet so Mara doesn't find you.
I wish I could remember the woman who named me, but the best I can summon is the smell of cigar smoke and watered down perfume. The faint memory of silky blonde hair and dull saddle shoes also come to mind, though, I don't know who the traits belong to either. It's ok. I don't need to remember in here because Silence doesn't ask me to.
Then the screech of a loose door shatters my heavenly illusion.
With these eight octaves, Silence is broken.
I slowly sit up from my slumped position. Listening closely, I flinch from two new voices.
Pin-pricks dance up my spine and I find myself solidifying in a sudden feeling of shock. The surprise morphing into an ugly rage. My Silence is threatened.
The new voices speak in hushed, sharp intervals. It's been years since I have heard. I'd come to think of myself as deaf. And now I can hear everything.
I try to stand up but my thin legs wobble and I fall to my knees.
Three octaves.
The pinched skin on my knee caps rip open but the blood is slow to come out. The noise of my fall echoes through the maze of cells and effectively cuts off the voices for a short time before they start up again. This time with more urgency.
I have to grab the uneven stone wall to stand at my hunched height. My greasy ropes of white hair cutting off my sight before I sweep it behind me.
I knew I wasn't old but I can't remember my original hair color.
She even looks like a witch.
I may not be an elder but right now I feel old. My aching bones tremble with the knowledge of malnourishment and stiffness. I shuffle toward my cell door and grasp for the rusted bars.
When I put weight on the door it gives a whine like a dying animal before it caves in and falls and the dust is pushed upward before it swallows the rusted metal again.
Another eight octaves.
I feel a pressure, almost like a burst blood vessel, in my head as I grit my teeth and pull at my slick hair, trying to rip away the noises and rid myself of the pressure.
