And every heartbeat is a vicious protest; a guilt-inspired attempt of the organ to crush itself on the concrete floor my ribs are grinding against.

Which is more merciful: to be the one upon which pain is inflicted? Or to be the one inflicting pain? A few days ago, I was the first. A few hours ago, I became the latter. Now, I am a creature of both.

Creature. Has that privilege not been detained?

“I want that one, it looks good.”

It. That is what I am, what I have since been. I am an object at best.

Of course, my pride held on for a while. Believing I still was human, I fought back. But my humanity was shackled and chained, whipped until it bled, left to rot until it wept. My humanity bowed down to the stab of needles and to the reek of my own self. It has been lost, but I still feel it bleeding away although none of it is left.

The ceiling mocks the plead for salvation.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The droplets hold me by the hand and, at an excruciating pace, guide me to the haven of insanity. It is nothing personal, this torture, it is but means taken to ensure that I do not die in my sleep. That it does by pulling me back to the cell, over and over again, reminding me with every cold drop piercing my forehead, that even if the title of human comes back for me, I am a criminal and nothing but.

The final shred of sanity I had left, after all, was taken away by the night. Eaten, really, by my own hands that drowned in oblivion, that when coming to, realized that they’d claimed their first victim.