99. Solitude

The walls are damp and colorless, and they smell like things you dig out of the bottom of a garabage bag. The air is humid and hot, and you could easily boil, your skin melting to a thick soup if they would let you. But you can't.
Theres one rotton wooden chair, with chains and rope binding you to it, in case you get any ideas of attacking a gaurd. You're dressed in an itchy, heavy black jumpsuit, just attracting more heat to yourself, making you sweat and itch even more.
There's no sunlight, they won't give you the pleasure of it. It's pure solitude, just you, alone, slowly going mad, drifting away into your own mind...
Welcome Home.