by Fiona Campbell
I climb them every second of every hour. The chipped green paint beneath my dirty bare feet. They don't understand, in here, that every second drips Chinese torture water on my crazy brain. Three years and counting, drip by torturous drip. I run across the ceiling, hide in corners, play the game. They see what they want to see in here, to them I am just a mad old woman - they don't see my bare feet race around these walls when their backs are turned.
Fiona Campbell writes in spite of herself.