<br/>The cold stone floor, the dank smell of stagnate water and uncleaned urin left for weeks. Small piles of feces rest in the corners, hardened with time, the dirt and grime so thick that a person could taste it. a dull dusty taste that crawled into the mouth of the prisoners and festered and rotted in there. The shallow dripping of water, one drop at a time, measuring some meaningless passage of time, one falling every 33 seconds, a single thunderous drop of water into a pool. The chilled floor, gritty to the touch. It was once smooth, and slick, but neglect and time scoured the stone and marked it. In truth, if cleaned, the damage was minimual, but the layers of grime so thick, a person could coat themselves without getting under the putrid floor layers to the stone below. A shocking feeling might awaken some, to others it is simply another thought amoung a dozen others. Nothing protects their skin from the cold floor. Not a shread of clothing prevents bare breast or unprotected cocks from touching the baren earth.<br/><br/>The bars of the cell, thick iron rods. Close together as if housing animals instead of humans, so thick and closely spaced that a rat would have trouble slipping through. A wall of Iron might be simpler, yet it was bars all the same. No food nor water existed in the cell, no beds or other aminitys. Only the floor and walls and bars.<br/><br/>Each victim was housed in a different cell, each victim trapped from different parts of the world. Each Victim, simply that. A Victim without understanding. Illigable messages remain from others, worn with time, or scrawled in the print of a mad man.<br/>