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I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time has stopped having meaning. Before, I could count by the meals. Three meals a day, and I’d know how many days passed by, and what time of day it was. Eggs for breakfast, sandwich for lunch, chicken at dinner.
But then they switched it up on me. Served me eggs four meals in a row. Then two meals of chicken. They feed me well, but I can’t tell what time it is anymore. For a while though, even without knowing when it was, I could count how many days had gone by. Three meals is one day. Six meals is two days. Nine meals is three days. Easy enough to do the math there.
Then they started delivering meals at off times. Now I have to eat whenever they give me food, because I have no idea when the next meal will come. And if I don’t eat, they take the food away. So I eat, even if I’m not hungry. I’m on their schedule, and I hate that.
I haven’t seen the sun in—Well, I don’t know how long. That’s the problem.