Four hundred and eighty-five days. Five hours. I’m counting. I might be wrong. I measure it with my sleep. When the lights go off. Old clocks in ancient Egypt used dripping water to measure time. I use the light in the prison cell. When they turn the lights back on that’s a day. One. Then it happens again. Two. I’m not sure of the season. The month. When I wasn’t in prison I had a constant reminder of time. Stores put out Halloween decorations in August. Outside of this cell time was pressured.
I haven’t spoken a word to anybody since I’ve been in here. In solitary confinement. I talk to myself. I discussed Game of Thrones last night.
Before the second meal, a letter was pushed under my door. It stated, “I can hear you. Talk to me, Beth.”
With who? Where? I ripped the note and flushed it. I didn’t like that. I CAN HEAR YOU. You can hear me? Someone was eavesdropping on my conversations. Someone heard me discuss a TV show.
Is there a listening device in my cell?
I don’t want to talk to who wrote the note. I’m violated. I will sit, count the days, and never say a word out loud.