Blindsight is 20 / 20

I can smell it - the worthless beast. What respectable creature defecates where it lives?...unless it must. I can't escape the stench! This cell is too small. I can barely stand. Not that I can now. No. Right now I can only lie here - eyes closed - curled up as if I could gather myself so tightly that I could eventually collapse into an infinitesimally small point and then disappear. At some times can stand and other times I can't. It is as if as month passes to month the cell expands and contracts - though I suspect that it is more a matter of fluctuations in my stature. It has begun to feel as discomforting to stand as it is to crouch. Why enjoy something that may be taken away forever in the next moment? I'll just lie here - eyes closed. I can hear it breathing. I'll catch it in a moment. It's sound is easier to track than its form. I can usually strike it at will now. Phasing in and out is no longer such an advantage. Perhaps I'll tear off one of its six legs and revel in its clumsiness as it wobbles like a drunken toddler until it accommodates for the lost limb. Or...rather deprive it of one of its tentacles and beat it with its own appendage! Why think of such things? I know that it is bound here by her will...like myself. It can only struggle to survive as best as it can under the conditions which it has been forced into...like myself. I can't bring myself to hurt it...considerably. I flex my limbs but I cannot curl up tighter than I already am...tasting the blood in my mouth...feeling the aching of breathing and the warmth of blood throbbing through my recently battered flesh. I won't hurt it this time...possibly never again. I can't suppress an iota of a whimper. I am disgusted with myself...my weakness...and then I hear it. A language and a voice that I don't understand but sound familiar permeate my consciousness. Vibrating sympathetically within my flesh, I notice that I have begun to move my lips to the syllabic pattern. A peaceful fatigue overcomes me....