It’s not a bad life, right? All the necessities provided, everything I need to survive. But I can’t stand it. I used to pace from one blank plastic wall to the other, trying to think who would have a reason to imprison me, who hated me this much, what I had done to deserve this, and most of all how I would escape. The walls won’t budge – believe me, I’ve tried. I still have the scars on my knuckles from the first night, pounding at the wall until I blacked out from hunger and thirst. They must have heard, since my hands were bandaged and I felt full. That’s the weird part: they haven’t completley abandoned me in this plastic box. I’m still cared for, all my basic needs. I’m not being tortured, not directly anyway. But… I haven’t seen a human face since I’ve arrived. I don’t know how long that’s been, but it feels like an eternity. The only place I see or hear people is in my dreams.