HALF SICK OF SHADOWS
Four grey walls, and four grey towers… she thought, staring; all I have to do to escape is kill myself, properly though, not waste away in a boat somewhere. She put the book down, a torn and dogeared paperback from the library cart. Originally it had contained two only slightly flattened cigarettes, the tobacco smell mingling with the old book mustydusty scent. She had once seen Willow lift a book right to her face and inhale, like she was going to suck the words right off the page, snort them like coke out of the spine. Willow had glanced up, and blushed slightly.
"It's the smell of a book. I love it. It's… comforting."
Faith opened the book to a random page and sniffed at it, wrinkling her nose at the oldness of the scent. She shrugged and flipped the book closed, tossing it onto the bunk beside her. It landed in a square of light that cut her grey draped bunk in half – fluoro from the doorway, the orange cover looking mildly malarial in the glare: Victorian Poetry – A Critical Selection. Faith snorted. A glorified cigarette pack. Typical of Luellen to send payment in that particular volume. Chick thought she was some kind of tragic heroine or something. I swear, I was just protecting my virtue, officer. Five times. He wouldn't stop running onto my knife. He was sex crazed, and demon ridden, that's what, in Luellen's whispery, papery voice, over and over again. Demon ridden. One of Luellen's favourite terms. If only you could meet a real demon, babe, Faith thought, you'd realise how right you are. Demons, men, no real difference. Angry, hungry, always, needing, taking, wanting, words covering their meanings like swamp fog, covering quicksand. That's something that Maria wrote once, on a piece of toilet paper. She was always writing, always talking in rhyme, always leaving bits of stupid poetry around the place. Once Faith had come back from a check up to find her bunk covered with bits of toilet paper, neatly torn along perforated lines into perfect squares, each one with one word. RIGHT. WRONG. Maybe twenty of them. Faith grinned in appreciation. This was poetry she could dig. Right, wrong, eventually it's all gonna get shit on by reality anyway. Maria had moved away soon after, into another block. Faith was alone again, no new cell mate yet. The night was the worst, when only her own breathing broke the thin silence. She even missed the poetry – sometimes. She rocked back and thought about the time. Probably ten or twenty minutes to go until dinner time. That was something she missed most about this place. Here, time was a series of minutes, joined together with crazy glue. The regimentation gave way to habit, and everything became screwed up and timeless. She wanted time to have some other meaning than just something to be passed – something to be served. Her gaze shifted irritably once more to the book. The cart wouldn't be around to retrieve it for another two days. She reached one hand towards it, and pulled it towards her. She tossed it up and caught it deftly a few times. She fiddled and twitched. Then she opened it to a page she had read before, and read it again.
… I am half sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shallott …