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Monologue of the Rat in the Abandoned Prison
Hungry.
Sniff here.
Sniff there.
Here I've been before nosing at the blood.
Tongue lapping.
It was warm.
Even in the stone tunnels where I crept.
Now just light.
And cold wind.
Humans once.
Sudden slamming tramping crying.
Loud echoes.
Empty now.
Wind ruffles icy through my fur.
Human blood gets stale fast.
Sniff.
Sniff.
Tongue flick.
Frozen dead blood.
Bloodless ice on bricks.
Walls crumble around me.
I claw up, down, back.
No sound of human bubbling.
No big wood doors going slam slam.
Nice to gnaw the doors.
Door closed.
No screams.
Only me.
Cold.
Alone.
Starve.
Thin.
The stones of the torturers' floor cannot even dream of pain and urine.
Stones do not dream, but they
Sleep,
I suppose.
Ah!
I sniff the scent of dreams
But it fades
As someone shouts that torture and blood are good.
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