ThursThreads, week 312

The vaguely reduced grey of daytime begins, and so do the voices. Since yelling into my hole would only produce a cacophony of echoes, they’ve installed a speaker by which I can hear. Today, the message was worthlessness. Why I shouldn’t be allowed to exist, even here. Person after person comes by, taking time out of their day to tell me how my life, here at the bottom of a thousand foot hole, offends their sensibilities. I have no microphone with which to respond, no hands to cover my ears. I hear every word, every snarl. I’ve grown used to the hate. When that’s all there is, it’s easy. I lie on my floor. I lap at the nutritional liquid they pool next to my head twice a day. And I listen.

I deserve to be down here, of course. It was a justice that they finally saw through my shell of adequacy and sent me to this home. Here I will rot under the weight of a thousand mistakes and ten thousand failures to be a better person.

The voices come, one after another, from what passes as my dawn to what passes as my dusk. At night, I ponder what they say to me, to know why I deserve to be in my hole.

If only one person would wonder, would ask, would say “you okay down there,” I would break. Thankfully, no one cares for me, and no one should. And the voices keep coming.