I do not stand in an oubliette. A blank white oubliette with barely enough room to move, each of its four walls a breath away from my skin, so tall the sky seems a million miles away. I do not hear whispers pour from the trapdoor in the ceiling and reverberate against those four white walls again and again like flies bouncing and circling around a bug-zapper. I do not shut my eyes against the whispers as if I can shut my ears along with them and I do not scream, begging for release as the murmurs breed and multiply and funnel into my head, wicked laughter dripping from every half-heard word.
I do not do these things. I am in a classroom. I have performed a scene for my teacher and classmates. The room is deathly quiet. I do not hear them whispering.