The smell is driving me insane.

I have nothing but my thoughts and my dreams to keep me company. WICKED had taken everything else on immediate arrival.

It's been eighty six days, or at least, that's what the tally marks I carved on the wall tell me.

Eighty six days of complete isolation.

The room is small. Sixteen steps along each wall. No window. No handle on the door. No texture on any of the walls or the ceiling. A completely solid gray concrete room. No furniture except for the thin mattress atop the squeaky steel bed frame.

It might as well be a prison cell.

And the smell. Oh, the smell.

It always smells like some kind of antiseptic, bitter and overwhelming. It smells too sterile and too metallic. It overtakes all of my senses, so much so that my food has begun to taste like it.

Three times a day, a tray of food is shoved through the tiny slot in the steel door. Every meal is the same; unseasoned white rice, a glob of watery mashed potatoes, and something made up of too many chemicals to really tell what it is. I stopped asking questions about it. There's no point in asking questions when no one is there to even listen.

I gave up on shouting for help and hitting my fists against the door and walls.

I gave up on hoping that I'd be let out of here soon.

I gave up on hope in general.

It's as if I've been completely forgotten about.

I reach up towards my neck with my left hand, my fingers fumbling with the ring on the leather cord. It's the one thing they didn't take from me before throwing me into this room. It's the one thing I was able to keep hidden from them. I let my fingers graze the cool metal of the ring before falling back into my lap.

My index, middle, ring, and pinky finger tap my thumb, counting four seconds every time. There's still blood caked on my body and crusted under my nails from all those weeks ago. My skin is covered in dirt, grime, and dried sweat. I can't remember when I last took a shower. The sight of my own skin makes me sick. I rock back and forth slowly as I count, never moving from my spot in the center of the room on the gray concrete floor.

I count until I can't any more. Until my brain goes numb and the headache from the smell is too strong. I grip my head in my hands, tangling my shaking fingers in my knotted, greasy hair. I continue rocking back and forth.

I squeeze my eyes shut to rid myself of the images my eyes have begun creating. I can't seem to trust myself anymore, the lines between reality and my own cruel imagination blurring together.

But, when I close my eyes, I'm met with faces. They're too blurry to make out, but the basic outlines of the facial features are visible. I hear the sound of their voices, but they seem far away and underwater, completely indecipherable. I can just hear the faint tone in their voices before they're gone, replaced with the quiet buzz of nothingness. I shake my head over and over again, rubbing the palms of my hands over my closed eyes.

Stars begin to appear, lighting up the dark night sky behind my eyelids. They're soft at first, yet brighten within seconds, nearly blinding me with their brilliance. And then, they're gone, replaced by the infinite void of darkness that always awaits after the light. I can't seem to escape from it anymore.

My eyes snap open just as the tray is pushed through the steel slot in the door, as if I knew exactly when it would happen. My stomach feels empty, yet just the sight of the bland food takes my appetite away. Yet I still force myself to eat it slowly, wrinkling my nose.

I nearly gag, my throat far too dry and scratchy to be swallowing food at the moment. Yet I force it down, coughing once after. It's still as disgusting as ever before.

I set the empty tray down by the door and make my way over to the dull concrete wall with the tally marks. I trace my finger across the once smooth surface, the sensation triggering a memory in my brain.

I lower the knife from the wall, taking a step back to admire my handiwork. Carved just below Newt's name and in between Minho's and Ben's is my name.

With my left hand, I run my fingers over my name, brushing off any excess stone so that I can see the carving better.

I smile as I look at it, the orange glow of the setting sun hitting the wall perfectly, lighting up each and every name. I step back once again, looking this time, not only at my own name, but at each and every one of the other Glader's names, only about fifteen total.

My smile widens as I think about how, at one point, each and every one of the boys in this place stood where I did and carved their names into this wall, maybe even ran their fingers over it just to be sure that it was perfect. I reach out one more time to glide my fingers over the stone-

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly before opening them once again, shaking my head to rid it of the memory. I look at each of the tally marks, counting them once again. I mouth the numbers as I count, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper every once in a while. Twenty six. No more, no less.

Eighty six days of absolute isolation and nothingness.

I raise the tiny slab of stone I found in the corner of the tiny room to the wall, my hands shaking uncontrollably. They seem to be doing that a lot lately. I slowly drag the stone across the wall, the scraping sound filling the noiseless room. I put a little pressure on the stone before dropping it to the ground and lowering my arm.

Eighty seven days and counting of absolute isolation and nothingness.