I wake up to the familiar hum of the fluorescent light overhead. _Fuck_, it’s always that same annoying buzz. It’s like it’s mocking me, taunting me every goddamn day. Or is it even day? Time doesn’t exist here. I don’t have a fucking clue if it’s morning, afternoon, or the dead of night. I’ve lost track. I roll over on my bed, the scratchy blanket brushing against my skin. It smells like stale sweat and bleach, a constant reminder of where I am. The room is cold, sterile, and the walls are an unforgiving grey, smooth and flat under my fingertips. There’s nothing here that feels like life. Nothing that feels _real_. It wasn’t always like this, I think. At least, I don’t remember it always being like this. But fuck, memory’s a tricky bitch. Sometimes I think I remember the taste of fresh air, the sound of birds, the feel of grass under my feet. But those memories feel like dreams, slipping away whenever I try to grasp them. My stomach growls, a low, painful rumble. They’ll bring food soon. They always do. That’s one thing that’s reliable. The door to the room is a heavy slab of metal, a slot at the bottom where the tray slides through. I don’t see their faces. I don’t hear their voices. Just the tray, in and out, like clockwork. I drag myself off the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet. I shuffle over to the small sink in the corner, splash my face with water. The icy shock jolts me awake, but it does nothing to clear the fog in my mind. The mirror above the sink is cracked, my reflection fragmented. I stare into my own eyes, trying to find something, anything, that makes sense. But all I see is a stranger, a prisoner in a place that feels like a twisted version of hell. The slot clangs open, the tray sliding through with a harsh screech. I grab it, the metal cold and unforgiving in my hands. Today it’s some kind of mush. Grey, tasteless, just like everything else. I choke it down, hating every second, every bite. But I eat. I always eat. It’s a rule. _Survive_. After what feels like an eternity, the lights flicker. I hate that. That moment of darkness, when the world blinks out and I’m left in a void. My heart races, panic clawing at my throat. Then the lights come back, steady and mocking, and I’m alone again. I pace the room, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. One, two, three. I count the steps, the tiles, anything to keep my mind from unraveling. The sound of my breath, harsh and ragged, fills the silence. I wish for a sound, any sound. Music, voices, even a fucking _scream_. Just something to remind me I’m alive. Sometimes I dream of escape. I imagine breaking through the walls, running until my legs give out, feeling the wind on my face. But those dreams are dangerous. They give hope. And hope is a fucking liar. I crawl back onto the bed, pulling the blanket around me. The lights dim, signaling the end of another cycle. Sleep comes in fits and starts, haunted by nightmares I can’t escape. I wake up gasping, my skin slick with sweat, the taste of fear sharp on my tongue. In those moments, I wonder. Can one be considered a prisoner if they are unaware of their captivity? The question twists in my mind, a cruel joke. Because I know. I know I’m a prisoner. I feel it in every breath, every heartbeat. This place, this room, it’s a cage. And I’m the animal trapped inside. I sink to the floor, knees drawn to my chest. The concrete is cold and unyielding, and I rest my head against the rough surface. My eyes burn, but no tears come. I think I’ve cried all the tears I have. Am I even still a person? Or just a ghost, haunting this cell, trapped in a cycle of endless torment? I don’t know. I don’t _fucking_ know. “Hey,” I whisper to the darkness. “If _anyone’s_ out there, if anyone can hear me… please. Just tell me why. Why am I here?” But there’s no answer. There never is. And so I sit, in silence, in darkness, waiting for an end that might never come.