The Wistful Asylum
"You missed the count." The voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It hung in the air, thin and sharp as a wire. I looked up. The guard stood at the bottom of the stairs, his uniform a blur of grey and steel. I held the object in my hands. It was small. Cold. It was the only thing I had left. "I was in the washroom," I said. My voice sounded far away. It did not sound like my voice. It...
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