The Writers' Circle

Her hands slide around the bars. Her knuckles turn white. Her mouth opens as if to speak. Even the air is filth. Her eyes, glazed, probably blind now, black. Her mouth thin, weathered away, no need for lips, in a place like this. 
"Mama!" 
Her voice, frail, even when she shouted, weak, cracked. Over time she had stopped shouting, echos were painful replies. 
"Mama" 
A whisper, to herself, mama, mama, mama, her baby is crying out for her, she knows it, she needs it. Soot, falls, into her clothes. She has spilt everything, tears drown this cage, cell, spilt on the floor, cannot dry. 
It's different, why, because, she does not want it anymore, a life, a soul, a heart, a child, all her children, spent time believing she is dead? Believing she is wrong, believing she is scum? It's different, she has drawn every breath, possible, here, without choking, on sorrow and on soot. 
A scream at six, six o clock when the trigger is pulled, not everyday, but most of them, she does not know if it is six, but it is a time, within endless time, within the black. She gets food, when they feel like it, so she sticks to six, a click, a scream, she doesn't think it ends quickly, because, even echos don't last for that long.