Tate
Tate lay on the damp bed and stared at the ceiling. He stared at the cracks and the mold growing in the corners. He stared at the flickering light in the center, at the dancing shadows it cast over the room. He shifted on the bed, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the smell of mildew assaulted his nostrils. When he got out of here, he was going to burn these damn clothes and take a hot enough shower to burn the top layer of his skin off. Even then, he thought, that still wouldn’t be enough to get rid of the disgustingness that was his cell. He sat up, needing a break from the smell, and stared at the blank walls. He half wished he had a window, so he’d have something else to look at, but then again, he was in a basement, so there probably wasn’t anything to look at except the ground.
