The only thing she ever saw was her small chamber, with the wrought iron bars on the windows, black curtains and torn wallpaper to keep her company. And the body, ever present in her small world, the only one she had ever known or she ever will. From time to time, crows and even rats came in her small corner of solitude. She longed for those days; if she was lucky, she could even catch a rat and eat it. The meat was stringy, but nothing could compare to the smell and taste of fresh blood, running down her fingers as she dug her teeth deep into the animal's belly.
Once, she had lived another life.
No, no, you must not remember that, you are no-one.
But that life had died when she entered the small asylum, and her body was rotting in the room, alongside so many other skeletons. Some were partially transformed into dust; others still had meat left on them. Rats came to eat that, too, and those were the best moments to catch them, when they were unaware.
She loved her small solitude in a way nobody could ever understand.
She loved the smell of the rotten corpse, that filled the air and swirled and twisted inside her head. She loved the old, wrought iron bars that were firmly propped against her window. She even loved her raggedy, once white lab coat, that hid the wounds she had inflicted upon herself. The wounds sometimes stung, but at those moments, she would nibble at them, and the feeling of blood under her nails and the worms swarming just under her bare skin would make her laugh so loudly, that even the ghosts echoed.
Once, she had lived.
But she had known too much, she had loved too deeply, she had fought too fierce. So in a day of seven, in a month of seven, in a year of seven she had found her solace in the lonely sanatorium, the seventh one on the seventh street, and people had left it to decay and she had decayed with it. She had shrieked and begged and cried, but her voice fell on deaf ears, until she stopped crying, and she saw the body.
Oh, how she laughed.
He started appearing every other midnight afterwards, and he would sing her lullabies. She had learned from him that they were in a black pitch, in the filthiest city on earth, and that the people were nothing but shit. He had taught her how to catch the rats and talk to the crows, he had filled her veins with poison and he had ripped the hole in the centre of her chest. And then he died, and his body was left there, a feast for crows and rats and fat, white worms; sweet, fresh, warm blood still present in his veins. She had drunk all of it, hoping to find her missing heart—and it was there, hidden safely inside his ribcage, but no matter how much she dug and ate and drank and pecked at his bones, she couldn't reach it.
And the years had gone by, and she knew not how the world had changed. She remained in her solace, in her sanatorium, with her rotting body to keep her company and the fresh blood of the rats to run down her fingers.
'You were him,' the crow called. 'You were us.'
She hugged the ribcage tightly to her chest.
'YOU WERE US,' the rotten body echoed.
'You were us! You were us! You were us!' Bones and rats and crows and worms, they all echoed those very words, and she felt the ribs shattering just under her arms, leaving her heart pumping warm blood in the entire chamber, and she drank it all, laughing and coughing and dying and rotting, yet she could not stop drinking her own sweet, warm blood.