(Jason)
It’s been a week. Seven days. That’s all it’s been. Feels like years.
They wake us up at five. Feed us garbage. Lock us in small boxes. I don’t talk to anyone. I barely sleep. I can’t eat much. Some guy two cells down tried to hang himself with his shirt yesterday. They cut him down before he died. I don’t think they’ll be that fast with me.
I think about it every night. Killing myself. Getting out of this place the only way left.
They keep moving me around. Different cellmates. Different routines. But nothing changes. The cold walls. The stink. The noise. It’s always there. The guards don’t care. One of them spit in my food the other day and just stared at me. I didn’t even say anything. I just dumped the tray in the trash and sat back down.
There’s no way out. I know that no
