Two months passed, and every attempt I made to leave the prison failed.
At first, I tried to remain hopeful. I convinced myself that something would eventually change, that someone would listen and the truth would be revealed soon. But hope became harder to hold onto when my body started to feel different.
I started feeling nauseous.
It started as mild discomfort, something I assumed was caused by stress, exhaustion, or the poor food. But within days, it grew worse. Eating became difficult. Even the smell of the meals made my stomach turn. Most mornings, I woke up dizzy. By afternoon, my head felt heavy, my limbs weak.
Still, nothing excused me from labour.
Sick or not, I was expected to work like everyone else. Complaints were ignored. Weakness was seen as laziness. No one cared enou
