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203 days I've been locked up.
I write in my stolen journal with the stolen pen, pouring the words that swirl around and around in my head onto the page. I dread the day that the pen will inevitably run out of ink.
I sit on the floor in the corner of my cell, knees to my chest and arms wrapped around my knees, counting the seconds that go by in a whisper, just to break the silence.
When I dream, my brain replays that moment with the little boy over and over again. Me trying to help him— and killing him instead. Sometimes I don't remember dreaming at all when I wake up, but I know I did.
For months after I was locked up, I dreamed I was at home, and every time I woke up in my cell, my entire body froze with a deadening disappointment.
I imagine myself anywhere but here.
It doesn't help.