Dark, cold metal rusts around me, rusts with me. The four eyes continue to prod and poke, their white not-fur flapping away.
There was a smell once. A smell of death. Perhaps they purged it.
Perhaps I’ve gotten used to it.
And there’s a crack. A widening, where the sound echoes, where I hear somewhere else. A place of wind, of green, of laughter.
Even as my eyes turn to dust in this prison, I can almost see it, smell this other world, this ‘outside’.
Is it home?
I don’t know.
But when the crack widens further, it will be.