“Make it stop,” she cried.
Her voice echoed and bounced along the dispassionate white walls, before falling muffled within the dust drenched carpet pile.
“Please, just someone, anyone, can’t just one person out there make it stop??”
The silence probed, penetrated and left her feeling passive but not aggressive to her own isolation. Transparent bodies wafted through the walkways of her vicinity, with voices making themselves heard but not seen.
“The ringing,” she bellowed, “the ringing, it’s incessant, it’s compulsive, it’s violating. Does nobody care that my sanity is being ridiculed with each and every ring??”
The silence sat suggestively at the end of the corridor, with its legs outstretched and fingers pointed towards her with disdain. Each blink gave birth to a bellowing chime, as her own heartbeat excelled in a subconscious competitive fight to the end. Her nails were stained red from the wounds of war that she bared and sold as stories at carnivals, lost and old. She is not your darling, and never will be.