3
The Arrangement
Rose
Present day. Rose, thirty-five years old.
The constant banging of fists on the closed doors is music to my ears. It lulls me to sleep. Helps me drift into oblivion. The cadence soothes me. The echoing footsteps, and the sound the plastic on my mattress makes whenever I shift in bed is what f***s with my peace. It reminds me that I’m a prisoner. One of my own making. My roommate, Nell, is talking to herself again. About faeries and fantastical creatures that do, indeed, exist. Just not in this world. Or realm. f**k. It’s any wonder I can remember my own name half the time. To even mention s**t like what Nell’s babbling about here earns a person a spot out in the hall, sitting on a hard-ass bench, waiting for the daily dose of dulling pills.
Dulling pills.
Dullin
