The orgasm sucks her in, chews her up, and then gobs her back into the bathroom. For the merest flickers of existence, she’s out of this place—as out as she’ll ever get without dying, that is. Gawping open-mouthed at the smoke-stained ceiling, the shit slips out of her arse, leaving her feeling as light as a single grain of sand. Next to being drunk, taking a shit is a sure-fire way to experience bliss. Post-coitus, the stakes are raised considerably. Anything to escape this place, she thinks. Anything to be out of this skin. Reaching for some toilet roll to clean herself with, she groans in despair. Hanging from the toilet roll holder on the wall is an empty cardboard cylinder. Spinning it with her spindly fingers, the remaining traces of pleasure slip from her body much the same way the shit did. Looking around, she picks up a towel and uses it instead. It’s not her towel, for it belongs to one of her housemates, and although she feels somewhat bad, it’s not bad enough for her to stop. When she’s done, she flushes the toilet and tiptoes back into the kitchen where she throws the dirty towel into the bin. Pouring herself a coffee, she grabs some more cheese from the fridge and stuffs her mouth while looking out the window. The world is blanketed by mist. Smothered. Choked. Reaching for her throat, she squeezes until her heart beats faster. The whiteness of the world makes her feel sad, and all at once, she’s overcome by a desperate desire to have a cellmate—for someone to come along with whom she can share the music of her life with, lest she continue on her own to a soundtrack of silence.