The Chokey

I am huddled in a small cupboard. I have been here for three days now.

There are no windows.

The only light is from the dimly flickering computer screen.

There are no vents. The air is mouldy and old. It makes me cough.

It is very dark in here.

The walls are covered in thumbtacks and staples.

I am surrounded by tall stacks of plastic folders with broken, jagged covers, and they are closing in on me. I am unable to move or turn. My skin is covered in scratches and cuts.

Every five minutes, a large woman with a loud voice will bang on the door to this terrible place. I shudder as she reaches in and adds more sharp edged files to the stacks.

Sometimes, a thin man with an equally thin moustache will stand outside the oubliette. "Type, type, type!", he screams, pointing at all the folders, "Keep going! Don't stop!". His eyes are bloodshot, and his hands are bony.

I am hunched over the computer, typing, typing, typing, typing. My fingers are very sore now.

Typing patient discharge summaries for hours and hours.

It is very dark in here.

Let me out!