Like he was rotting, decomposing, his insides turning as rancid as his outside felt. But for some reason his deteriorating hygiene pushed against his mind, causing horrific thoughts. Perhaps that in itself was a sign that he’d lost it. He didn’t know why the stench of his own body was the thing that scared him the most. Not even bedding-he slept all curled up, his butt wedged in the corner of the room, arms folded, trying to hug some warmth into himself, often shivering. But he had nothing, only the dirty clothes he’d been wearing when they locked him away. A simple rag would’ve helped he could dip it in the water they gave him to drink and clean his face at least. They didn’t let him shower or bathe, hadn’t provided him with a change of clothes since he’d arrived or anything to clean his body with. Alone in an unbearable silence, with unlimited time to think about the disease rooted inside him: the Flare, that silent, creeping virus that slowly took away everything that made a person human.īut he stank, and for some reason that set his nerves on a sharp wire, cutting into the solid block of his sanity. In a padded room devoid of color-the only exceptions a small, almost-hidden stainless-steel toilet in the corner and an old wooden desk that Thomas had no use for.
As if he was meant to feel disoriented.Īlone. The meals helped, though they didn’t seem to come regularly. He tried to best guess when night had fallen, made sure he only slept what felt like normal hours. For over three weeks now, though he’d begun to doubt his tracking of time-which was based purely on instinct. No books, no movies, no games.Ĭomplete isolation. They’d taken his watch they fed him the exact same meal three times a day-slab of ham, mashed potatoes, raw carrots, slice of bread, water-never spoke to him, never allowed anyone else in the room. Not the lack of windows or the fact that they never turned off the lights.
It was the smell that began to drive Thomas slightly mad.
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