The Dripping

The sound that greets my consciousness is dripping. I've heard it longer, I think, than I've ever heard anything. I couldn't stop it, the walls themselves seep, and where it doesn't run down in thin, silent rivulets, it drips. And drips. And drips. The rough, wet stone walls reflect the light from the bare light bulb hung outside my door. The thin, crisscrossed lines of the tiny opening, a shadow in that reflection. The dripping. How many tons of rock hang over my head? Am I in a mountain? A cave? I may never know. The dripping. Sometimes I hear voices. I'm not sure if they're real or not. Regardless, I latch onto them, understood or not, so I can hear something - anything - else besides the dripping. I used to talk to myself. I stopped, though, when I heard laughing. I'm not sure if that was me or not, either. Even when they bring me food, they never talk. I used to plead with them to say something, but I was answered only by the dripping. I used to be cold. The little clothing I have left is always wet and the stone floor that is my bed gives no relief. I think I'm numb now. I'm not sure. I can only be sure of one thing.