Day Five
This is the fifth morning here. I
have written less and less, realizing that when I awake, what I logged the day
before has vanished. This journal is a taunting little puke sitting on a perch
that is just out of reach, reminding me that it gets even worse: my memory is
still void of any knowledge of who I am or my past. This is no dream… I live
the day here, imprisoned in this wretched, forsaken pit, alone with this
journal. What I am writing with is a crude, bumpy black pen that is attached on
a crimson ribbon to the worn binding of the aged leather journal.
A bucket sits every morning waiting
in the corner. Inside is what I am given each day for food: moldy bread, aged
fruit, and a large, earthen jug of filmy water that has a metallic taste. I
have no other amenities besides that wooden, copper rimmed bucket. I never see
how the bucket comes and goes, but it is there, as I left it the night before.
On the first full day, I used it as a toilet three or four times before I feel
asleep. I learned after that restless night that whoever tends to me never
cleans the bucket. Now I only use it as a seat.
I still have not seen anyone from
above… I still have not heard any other noises besides my own… I still have no
fucking idea about… anything.
My back is against the bright, warm
spot of sun that casts upon the rock walls of the cell. It must be getting
close to dark. The shadows are beginning to creep up my toes, engulfing the
warmth from the days light. The headaches have been constant all day, but they
are worse when I think about sleeping, and even more so when I lay down. For
someone reason, I feel like I must have more than what my body needs for rest.
That reminds me…
These nightmares could attribute to why I am
not sleeping. The one I had last night…
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