It is the 7th day of my captivity. My captors say they will let me out early next week, but I’ve dealt with them before and I know, that’s bullshit.
I have two cell mates.
A small clingy one that can smell the fear in the air and it freaks him the fuck out. He has decided that the only way he can sleep is with one arm wrapped around my neck. Tightly. Every time I wake to pee, he wakes, and then by the time I get him back to sleep, I’ve remembered why he is back in our bed. I remember the prison. And then? I can’t go back to sleep.
There is a larger cell mate. He looks familiar. Like a man I used to date. We wavers between offering his support and reminding me that I was the one who landed us all here. He is fine with the prison, but irate that it bills out at the same rate as a resort. He spends most of his days running his tin cup back and forth over the bars of our cell demanding they lower the rates.
Three times a day I am tortured with progesterone inserts. The prison guard seems to think that if it keeps this up, I will talk. Trust me. If I knew what it wanted me to say, I would sing like a canary. Instead I sink further and further into a PTSD depression and wait.
The prison guard has given me a way out. A way to end the torment early. Thing is, I’m worried it’s a trap. I’ve heard the screams from the cells down the hall.
The smell is starting to get to me, and the prison food is making me sick. I know it’s too early to be a sign of impending release though, so am blaming it on the thrice daily vaginal torment.