Prologue

Diary entries from a prisoner

Day One
I write this from my cell. The only light is shining from the cracks under the door. They’ve taken away everything I have and put me in a dark room. It’s cold and damp and smells bad. For a long time they had me hanging by my wrists in shackles and now they hurt and are rubbed raw from flailing around. My throat hurts from screaming and they won’t give me water. They told me that I could sleep in the pile of moldy straw in the corner and gave me these few sheets of paper. Who knows why they gave me that request. Perhaps they thought it was harmless? Well apparently they don’t pay much attention.

Day Eight
They haven’t given me new bread and water for three days. I regret eating that last loaf as fast as I did. I told them I lost my pen so I could get an extra. My wrists are in a perpetual state of pain. I refuse to give up, I’m not ready to back down just yet. There’s not much I can do to escape, so I’ll just have to make my stay inconvenient. My stomach is growling, I think I’ll go lay down for a bit before they chain me up again.

Day Thirty
I’m miserable. They’ve gotten into the habit of ‘forgetting’ to feed me that poor excuse of a meal quite often. I’ve started to ration myself, giving myself very little to eat. I had to use my spare pen because in a vain attempt to escape, I stabbed one of the guards with my other. It didn’t work, and all I gained was a nasty bruise on my back and a long cut on my stomach. I think they like hearing me scream now, especially because it’s getting harder to talk. My throat hurts and is usually dry. Was it worth it?

Day Forty
Another beating was in store for me. My guard got switched and this one already dislikes me. I didn’t do anything wrong this time, but I think he broke my wrist when he tried pulling my hand out of the shackle without opening it to see if I was sneaking out. It’s dislocated or something, I’m not sure. He was upset with me because I killed his wife. S**t happens, and she got in my way. That’s what I do, and that’s what I’m here for. Time to let go of the past… that’s what I did.

Day Ninety six
I can’t take it. I’m getting fed less often, and beaten more. My entire body aches and the straw doesn’t make sleeping easier. There’s never anything to do. Sometimes I sleep while chained up to the wall. Discomfort has become a part of my life. One I hated but one I was used to. I don’t think I’ll have to do this much longer…. If they keep this up I’m sure to die.

Day One Hundred Eighty Four
They found out that I was writing with the light and took it away. It’s hard to see but I’m somehow managing. I think this will be one of my last little notes. I’m getting worse and worse. I’m weak and sickly. I can barely hold this pen, let alone stand. I have to crawl around this hellhole like a dog. A worthless, dirty, unloved dog. And it hurts. Everything hurts. I haven’t spoken in months, and I gave up on fighting. I do what they ask in hopes of avoiding another thin slice through my skin. Bruises cover my pale skin, and I can see all of my bones clearly. I’ve caught some sort of cold and can’t stop coughing. That hurts too, and they won’t give me extra water. I can barely keep my eyes open. I think I need to go, I think I’m going to die soon.

Author's Note

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