Pitch black

At first I thought my eyes were tricked by the lights or the mirror.
That blackness couldn't possibly belong to a pair of human eyes.
Dark, vibrant circles of pure obscurity, peephole to a tormented mind, attic of a cold house devoid of emotions, selfishness as the reigning feeling, instinct as the true guide.
Empty chest, murk yet appealing smile, poisoned words slipping through cold lips to eager ears of a desperate soul. Desperate for attention, for a single moment of breathlessness in a world filled with air.
Turns out those were the most human eyes of all.
They belong to me, to the little creature crawling inside the wintry rooms of my solitude; accompanied by a sound, that of the nails scratching the lock, and the doorknob, peeking through the peephole of the door named civility.
I hold the key but not exactly the control towards my own curiosity. What would happen if I just put the key in place?
Meanwhile I live with this knowledge, hearing the never-ending scratching.
I wonder who the actual prisoner is.