They brought thick, stacked pancakes, sizzled bacon, frosted donuts, fried eggs, country potatoes and a big mug of coffee with heavy cream. They set it next to my bed and then left. They locked the cell door. I had been two weeks without food. I was weak but I still had my health. The real physical problems don’t start until the end of the third week. Things become desperate in the fourth week. I could smell the food. My stomach rumbled and then I felt acid rising in my throat. My stomach juices caused a great deal of pain. I wanted that food. All I could think about was food. Every second of every day. Food. I couldn’t eat because of the cause. The Cause. Capital C. I was on a hunger strike for the Cause. I didn’t know if my strike was working. I was confined to my cell. I had no access to the news or the other prisoners. I was suffering alone without knowing if my suffering was provoking change. I sniffed and could smell the pork. Hickory smoked bacon. I started crying. I thought the Cause would make me psychologically full. The Cause would fill my belly with determination and strength to refuse food. But from the moment I refused to eat, the very moment I yelled hunger strike, I became psychologically hungry. The Cause emptied my belly. The Cause did not provide sustenance. I wanted to eat. EAT. There was no way I could. If I reneged on the hunger strike the Cause would find my family, my husband, and daughter, and kill them for my cowardice and lack of resolve to fight for the Cause. I looked at the tray of food and vomited bile onto my pillow. I wish I had known as a child that the Cause was empty that fighting for the Cause was like consuming air.
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