Another day passes. And another. I’m not given any food, but I receive some water…I think once a day.
They must be keeping me alive for some reason.
My fingernails are bitten to stubs, and my hair is a matted mess of tangles and blood. My clothes are falling apart and stained with horrible and embarrassing body fluids.
On the fourth day, I start to scream.
I pace my cell, dig around in corners looking for weak spots in the rough stone, and try to claw my way through the concrete floor.
I examine the metal door that traps me, looking for hinges to unscrew or a way to pick the lock. I tear my cot into pieces. I can’t keep track of the days anymore.
One day I get food with my water and I eat it shakily, hoping not to throw it all back up. Surely whoever is keeping me here knows exactly how much nourishment will keep me on the edge of life and death.