The tally marks on the wall say it's been 3 days, but I could swear it's been longer. Everything looks dimmer. The walls, peeling paint a murky shade of grey, the dust laden floor that seems to jump up at you if you stare long enough. Or maybe I'm just light headed. A grimy old mirror lurks in the corner. Cobwebs knit their way up to the clinging insects near the ceiling in front of it. They didn't appreciate it when I tore away at the webs in order to clean the mirror. They gave me the resentful look and muttered "Oh, really! Must you?". Then they bit my palms in my sleep and gave me all kinds of itchy rashes. But no matter. At least the mirror's clean. It gives me some kind of companionship. It takes tea with me in the afternoon and makes idle conversation. -"How're the buns Mr. Mirror?" -"A bit mouldy, I'm afraid," replies the mirror. "But I've had worse." I looked disappointed. -"I'll try to get something better tomorrow. It's hard to find a decent bite in this joint." -"You figure they're gonna get you better food if you ask politely? You must be crazy." -"Don't call me crazy. You're crazy." -"I'm not crazy. I'm cracked." Then it laughed the wild laugh of a maniac. It's true. It was cracked. I'd tried to glue it up, but it just wouldn't stick. An incontinent drip of salty water at the sink keeps me awake at night. I'm grateful for it. When I'm awake, I'm more alert. I can look the prowling ghost that visits at night in the eye and say "Shoo!" and it floats away disappointed. I'm sure it has the best intentions at heart; It's a very old ghost, a little disoriented, but you just don't intrude on people while they're sleeping. There's fire in the corner that never goes out. It's fed by sunlight that filters in through the hatch above at day, and by moonlight at night. It keeps me warm. Hush! There's a clanging of heavy doors being opened and then shut down the corridor. And the intermittent tap of a wooden truncheon on the cell gates. It makes me shiver. He does it on purpose, does the man in the navy overcoat and hat. He's the devil. He spits fire and feeds on our souls. You can feel the air get thicker when he approaches. They call him the Warden. I cower as he looks at me, pauses a moment, then walks on. I live another day. They say the previous resident of this very same cell, burst into flames one day when he irked the Warden. He was given a sound thrashing and lay sprawled on the bunk, laughing till the next day when no trace of him could be found. The cell was empty. Just ash on the floor. There's a hole in the wall below the lavatory. I explored it one day while Mr. Mirror kept watch. It turned out to be a tunnel that led to the sewers below. Fortunately, I was able to return before the dinner bell rang. Don't want to get into trouble, no sir. The sewers might lead to the river without, but I don't want to be burned by the sunlight. I'd escape if I were incombustible. But human beings, as we know, do spontaneously combust on occasion.