Personal Narrative On Being Black

I'm back in room 317. A room of shadows and mind tricks. I reach out and touch the corroding window, drawing a small, sad frown. My fingers trace the rotting bolts that stand between me and the outside world, counting them as I do. It's my only sanity. 24 bolts suffocate this window. Slumping back down on the creaking bed, I pull the tatty old blanket over my body. It was once white; parasitic blacks splodges cover the fading memory of purity. Beyond the locked door and passed the small, sliver of golden light seeping through the cracks, I hear screams. Faint, they tangle themselves onto my ears and crawl into my brain. I breathe out, blocking the cries and intoxicating my mind with the stench of curdled blood and must instead. But my mind