Around her were nothing but blank walls, white. The colour was sick, it didn’t signify anything. Not the earth or plant life, not the burning sun or a flickering candle, not the blushing of someone’s cheeks when they smile. Niamh had sat for weeks on end. She couldn’t recall when she’d first arrived here. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t like she had anyone to tell.

All she knew were four walls. And the rest of her previous life, the life she’d lived before, was insignificant. The less she thought about any of it the less it even existed. It was like her first day here, where at first she’d raged because she felt the injustice. Those strong emotions were still present within her, the residue of a well lived life. After a while they’d transferred to disdain, sadness, before they’d evaporated entirely.

It was something she’d learnt, something couldn’t exist if it didn’t have a purpose. She was trapped in her mind, which in turn was trapped in a body that barely even existed. Dance existed when there was music, and at first she’d tried to dance. But, then she couldn’t remember what rhythm was, nor what she looked like. It became limb contortion.

Then she studied her body, her arms and legs, and thought about what she could do with them, until she realised they couldn’t take her anywhere. They then became weird amorphous appendages, and she began to believe she was better suited to being a box, like the one she existed in. Perfect, exact. She became the box.