His Madness
Scratch, scratch, scritch. The noise scrabbled at the walls, gnawing little holes in the occupant's all-ready damaged sanity. Scratch, scratch, scritch. It had been going on for hours, first causing little bits of skin to float down to rest on the polished floor but, as the clock ticked, drops of blood dripped down to join the pile. The man's fingers were slick with his own blood, and yet he did not stop. Could not stop.
Ksst, ksst, shick. The rhythm changed slightly. Longer strokes, spreading the thick substance further, until it almost looked like war-paint. He picked at his skin until it tore, knowing that his body was falling apart. No matter, he would have a new one in a year's time.
Until then, he sat in his darkened room and watched his body fall apart, bit by bit.