The first night Dill was here, she was raped by a guard. It soiled her entire being.

Her confidence was diminished the way food was. A skinny frame, scarred and broken. But her fury only grew.

Anger against the people imprisoning her here. Anger against the fire proof shackles that kept her fire from her skin. Anger against the people trying to stifle her, trying to put her out.

She wanted to burn this wretched place to the ground.

Every day was the same.

Wake up. Change into different uncomfortable clothing. Stare at the ceiling. Eat breakfast. Stare at the ceiling of the lobby. Watch people try and fail to exercise. Brainstorm how to get back to her fire. Lunch. Stare at the ceiling. Play mind numbing games. Get interrogated by the Warden. Get interrogated by a therapist. Get interrogated by a reporter. Stare at the ceiling. Dinner. Paint some crap. Loath everything. Take meds. Bed.

Dill hadn’t enjoyed a moment here. For waking up was a terrible start to her day and the food soured her mood further. And staring at the ceiling was quite boring. She couldn’t ever talk to the other patients because they were all insane. All of them.

Dill watched the same popcorn ceiling she does every day, waiting for her escort, Kathleen, to pick her up and bring her to breakfast.

Her room was bare, a twin bed with a light blue quilt, a small wooden side table with a lamp on it, a light blue rug, a near empty shelf, white walls.

It looked like a hospital room, she thought. Though in a way, wasn’t it a hospital room? A room for the insane to be “treated”.

Dill didn’t feel treated. She had stupid activities once every week, like electro shock therapy, painful tests, they would prod through her mind and memories, potions, medicine, sedatives, therapy.

They changed nothing. She was trapped in this hellhole with other insane people.

Though Dill didn’t feel insane.

She just felt angry. So, so angry.