The window is cold to the touch. He kneels on the hard mattress and tries his best to breath in the fresh air coming from the draft. He can’t get his nose close enough because of the bars but he feels the sting of frost on his cheeks. It is his only source of light, his beacon from the darkness that surrounds him every day. The bed he lies on squeaks every times he moves and the blanket they gave him is much too small. It smells like sweat and urine, needless to say he doesn’t sleep much. Laying on the floor isn’t any better; it is cement and his muscles ache from doing nothing but sitting, laying and waiting. Sometimes he hears the screams of the others. Those who are desperate, and unstable. They wail like sirens that no longer work. They are sometimes too loud and too high. They are punished for screaming, and he hates it when he hears the buzzing of the gates opening because he knows that the silence that follows is that of a deadly fear. He has his window, but he knows that the madness he already feels creeping in his mind will soon consume him and then it will all be over.