The Fear Within Me

37

I have nothing to do but count the number of tiles on the floor. There are 144, I know, but I keep counting them over and over to keep my mind busy.

Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

The door opens only to distribute food. It's good; I'm not being treated like a prisoner in that aspect, but I still don't want to eat it. I end up picking at the sandwich but leaving most of it. I wonder many times if I could pretend to be passed out on the floor, and even try it once, but it doesn't work. Maybe someone will come to my rescue and help me escape. But escape to where? This is likely the safest place I can be, if not the most boring.

I teach myself how to do a handstand, then try walking on my hands. I have enough time that I figure it out, though my arms hurt terribly. This place is making me crazy, with no way to keep time and nothing to look forward to. After push-ups and sit-ups and a lot of other -ups, I can say that for the first time in a long time that I'm legitimately tired. I fall onto the paper-thin mattress and pull the sheets up to my nose, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent, and sleep comes quickly.