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Your eyes flutter, and first thought is "For the love of God, Montresor! For the love of God!"

Jagged pain shoots from banged elbow; carefully lower them to your sides while you push the dreamgunk from your eyes. Cold concrete walls meet outstretched palm, noticing your nails are overlong, slightly ingrown. A large mirror dominates easily behind you - examine the matted hair, skin folding from too rapid, too extreme weight loss. Press fingers against the invisible concrete-glass seam, notice the healing slashing scars along armbacks and - when examined - neatly crisscrossing shoulderblades.

Adjust the barely adequate rags (greasy to the touch), providing a minimum of cover. You are not overmodest, yet the mirror seems more peering eye than reflector. You know now the difference between naked and nude. You tell yourself you curl in the corner for warmth, but you don't believe it.

Your breath hisses in the room, sussurating sound, trying to see through sheeted mirror, staring at your own sunken eyes staring, breath filling your ears, wrapping bone arms about emaciated chest.

Eyes open with the clank of machinery, cough sleep-phlegm, curl tighter in the corner. Revealed grate is out of reach, even if you had the energy to try anything. Fine mesh, you count the squares to pass the time, slightly vexed by the damp lines difficult to see in the recessed dimness, brushing absently at the drop splatter on your arm that stubbornly refuses to come off.

Attention refocus by the burning, head snaprolling down, shriek rattles against scurvied gums as the black drop burrows into your flesh, dig with your nails, its tentacles shoot out along your veins, coiling for grip, see arteries shift, veins budge against your futile tugging. Still persist - gotta get it out gotta get it out - insane mantra until the next drop falls, covering the back of your clawing hand.

You know it's a mistake too late, head already moving, looking up at the dripping grate, a screen door in a black hurricane, the next drop making good its hold on your eyes seconds before you are covered.

You think it takes days.

When the mirror opens, they ask you how you feel.

"Great," your mouth says for you, knowing your reflection seconds ago looked just like your cookie-cutter inquisitors, buttoned up in drone suits and not-too-flashy power ties. You're just like them now.