Little Inklings 2025

4732 by Georgia Bush ’29 I don’t remember my name. I think I used to. But when you spend enough time in a box, as millennia seem to pass by around you, the things that make you you start to peel away, sinking into the depths of murky water. Everything melts together, congealing into a swirl of sludge, mixing with the river’s toxins, seeping out of the brain. First went the days—the sense of time. Then, the sound of my own voice, since there’s no one to talk to. Loneliness should have been next, but it washed away long ago, carried offwith the rest of my emotions. Then, the faces inmy memory. Once distinct, they blur together, their features dissolving in the reflection of the water. The moments tied to them slip away, too. I know something put me here —I must have done something. But the details slip away like ink in water, leaving only fragments, occasionally returning to me like the tide. A flash of bodies. Blood. The weight of something heavy dropping to the floor. Wide, wide eyes —mine? Someone else’s? The glint of steel, a knife clattering frommy hands, slick with scarlet. Was it me? It must have been. But why? Why would I do that? Then they’re gone again. I am powerless to stop this, of course. All I can do is watch the water seep through the cracks. Finally, it’s my name. Does that mean I don’t have one? Where are all those eyes watching through my reflection? Did the calendar cease to exist as soon as I left the bright sunlight behind? I must not have a name. But I remember a number. 4732. It’s the first thing I heard when I got here —the scrawny arms shoving me into this cage. I remember that part. My own gaunt, freckled face reflected in the pools of his almost crystalline eyes. The fear, the apprehension. Of whom?Me? That part has faded now. I remember being tossed into this cell, the warden calling out, “4732 is secured,” and walking away. I remember thinking –Is that all I am? A number? I had a name then; I know I did. Back then, I couldn’t see the deep cracks in the floor, the rivulets of muddy water trickling down, down, down into whatever abyss lay below. I don’t knowhow long ago that was, only that the gauntness has turned to cadaverous. How fitting. I resemble the thing that put me in here. 47….Three, Two. It was the first thing I heard. It will be the last thing I hear when I leave. If I ever leave. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just sink, bit by bit, into the filth — draining out, slipping through the cracks like everything else. Leavingme with nothing but a number. Four. Seven. Three. Two. 4732 By Georgia Bush ’29 6